


Dark Shines

by KalendraAshtar



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Murder Mystery, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Thriller, Urban Fantasy, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalendraAshtar/pseuds/KalendraAshtar
Summary: Haunted by a troubled past, Hector Blackwood fully dedicates himself to his job as a criminal profiler for the New Scotland Yard. As a series of ritualistic and gruesome murders shakes Edinburgh to its core, he is forced to dive deep into his hometown's underworld and seek help from a modern day witch, the mysterious and powerful Ophelia Wardwell.
Comments: 143
Kudos: 77





	1. Four Women

**Author's Note:**

> This story started as a piece of Outlander fanfiction, and you can still find that version right here on AO3. Since it was such a huge departure from canon to begin with, I've decided to pursue it as an original story, as I move away from writing fanfiction. Beyond the needed adaptations, the text will see some changes, and hopefully an extension past where the fanfic ended. Much love, K.

**I – _Four Women_**

_5:46 am._

For several weeks Hector Blackwood had come awake at exactly that same hour, despite his alarm being religiously set for _6:30_ am. That awakening time had been carefully curated over the years to allow for a quick workout and a tranquil breakfast, scanning a few digital headlines, before he arrived at his office in the _Yard_ ’s headquarters at 8 am sharp.

At first, the preciseness of hours started to escape a little - _5:37,_ one gloomy morning _; 5:49,_ when the sun finally decided to make an appearance over London; _5:41,_ when he was in dire need to take a piss. Eventually, like a strange gravitational point fixed on his nightstand, he started to open his eyes to the numbers _5_ and _46_ unfailingly glimmering in radioactive red on his alarm’s screen.

Sometimes he would challenge that unprecedented routine, to try and catch time off guard. Hector would come awake, but lingered with his eyes firmly closed, playing a game without a clear adversary, counting silently inside his head until he was almost sure he would be late to work. But no matter how hard he tried, time stayed unflinching.

His apartment was organized but sparse, unpersonal almost, as if he had just moved and wasn’t certain he would stay for long. In all truth, he had been living there for over five years. It was a place designed for a dreamless sleep, for an unremarkable life.

After fifteen minutes speeding furiously on the treadmill, the young criminal profiler lounged on the mat for a few sequences of sit-ups, using the vision of creamy scrambled eggs as motivation. However, when his phone rang ominously - not even ten minutes past seven-, Hector knew he was about to embark on a hungry (and slightly cranky) morning.

“Blackwood.” He grunted towards his phone, wiping sweat away from his brow and short, slightly wavy, black hair with a towel. On the other side of the line, the voice of his _New Scotland Yard_ superior – Director MacRae – sounded strained and anxious.

“They have another one.” Alistair MacRae blurted above what Hector could only assume were the tasty remains of his morning toast and crispy bacon. “ _In Edinburgh_. That makes it three, Agent Blackwood.”

“A _serial killer_ , then.” Hector nodded, although the senior officer couldn’t actually see him. He held his breath for a moment, before speaking again. “Has the _Police Scotland_ made an official request for us to assist?” He got up from his living room’s floor, padding towards the almost sterile kitchen balcony for a glass of cold water. “As much as I’d like to play, we canna go meddling without their permission, or we’ll have a downright kerfuffle in our hands.”

“ _They have_.” The director assured him with a hint of excitement in his voice, undoubtedly thrilled with the political impact of such a collaboration. “They asked for our best profiler and I’m sending _you_. Scene photos won’t do it, I want you in the field for this, collecting your information first-hand. Jeremy Crowley is going too, and your appointed liaison is Detective Kester Arnott - fairly green chap but hardworking, as I hear.”

A pause, in which two parts of him wrestled relentlessly: the police officer, exhilarated by the promise of an exciting hunt, and the possibility of saving any future victims; and the Scottish outcast, sworn never to return to the land that was the substance of his bones, diligently fulfilling his self-imposed exile. “Alright. I’ll get packin’ then.”

“Jolly good!” Alistair sounded thoroughly pleased. “You’ll stay for as long as it’s necessary, of course. I’m hoping for some excellent headlines soon enough. Make us proud, Agent Blackwood.”

After an uncharacteristically long shower, Hector packed methodically and rapidly, both his personal items and a few objects he deemed indispensable for his job ( _a couple of conceptual books, the only painkiller he could still use, his notebook and companion pen_ ).

He looked around without any tangible emotion, more to reassure himself that nothing of note was being left behind, than of any real sense of melancholy from temporarily leaving a place that was no more to him than a transitory shelter anyway. His eyes fixed on a frame on his bookshelf and he strode towards it, almost fearfully, as if he could disturb its occupant from a profound slumber. When he reached it, a very tentative finger caressed the outline of the face depicted, his body barely able to bear re-discovering those lines.

Eventually, Hector finally left the house taking his bag and the photograph under his arm, firmly locking the door behind him.

***

Edinburgh smelled like mist, undecisive rain and memories that burned bright like a spiced candle, permeating the air in all directions. The flight was uneventful, and Hector and Jeremy used its short extent to study the files of the three murders, discussing a few aspects in hushed voices.

As soon as the airplane touched ground, they picked up a rental car and dropped their baggage in the respective neighbouring flats assigned by the force.

“Crowley.” Jeremy answered his phone, while Hector drove them to the nearby station to meet Detective Kester Arnott. “ _Where_?” He glanced meaningfully at his companion from the corner of his light brown eyes, warm despite their analytical nature. “We’ll meet you there.”

“Another one?” Hector surmised with a sigh. Jeremy nodded in confirmation and inserted the address of the new crime scene on the navigation system of the car. “His cooling-off period is shortening and he’s escalating quickly.”

 _Lydia Montague. Esther Bloomfield. Olga Simpson._ And now, _Anna Sterling._ Four young women brutally murdered in the span of three weeks, found in their respective homes stripped of the light that animated them, carved from neck to lower abdomen. 

_No viable suspects. No physical evidence to speak of_. Too much yet unclear on the _How, Where, Why, Who and When_ , the elemental questions that summed up to spell the syllables of the murderer’s name.

“Fellows, glad you could join us.” Detective Kester Arnott of the _Police Scotland_ greeted them on the curb, as soon as they parked their anonymous black vehicle. He had short blonde hair and light blue eyes, that shone with a quiet sensibility and shrewdness, and looked awfully tired. “This one has us scratching our heads and vomiting our guts, that’s for sure. The coroner hasn’t arrived yet, but he’ll meet us inside.”

“Hope we might be able to help.” Hector gripped the detective’s hand in a friendly handshake, and they marched towards the house, heavily secured by crime-scene tape and unusual uniform presence.

“Anna Sterling was last seen alive at a pub in the _Royal Mile_ yesterday’s night, so we can be sure it happened since then.” Arnott shared, blinking rapidly when they entered the room where the victim awaited them. “She was alone having a pint, according to the bartender.”

“Was the left index finger also removed this time around?” Hector’s sea green eyes quickly scanned the scene, the fetal position in which the body had purposefully been set upon on the living room’s floor.

“Damn right.” Kester scrunched his nose, as if someone had just served him a generous portion of five-day-old-haggis. “A clean-cut right at the base of the second metacarpophalangeal, as described in the others’ autopsy reports, probably using a very sharp blade and showing no signs of hesitation. No fingers found as of yet, so we’re assuming he keeps them as tokens.” The detective puffed, changing weight between his legs in slight discomfort. “No souvenir to cherish close to your heart like a cold, _decomposed_ , finger, I guess.”

“Why always go for the left hand?” Jeremy asked, taking a couple of shots from the mangled body extremity. “For what I can see in previous files, it wasn’t even the dominant hand in all victims. Lydia Montague was definitely right-handed.”

“Well, the right hand is seen as the _physical hand_ ,” Hector stated, walking around and tilting his head to study the puzzling symbols drawn in charcoal black and blood-stained red. “While the left hand can be seen as the hand of _character_ and _beliefs_. Maybe the unsub is challengin’ the victims’ principles or the morals they stand for. Gambling, infidelity, shallowness, greed - or some other behaviour that could be seen as a flaw of character - that we know of?”

“Their background check is squeaky clean.” Arnott smacked his lips, shaking his head in disagreement. “Lydia and Esther were born in honest blue-collar families in Oban and Melrose and worked hard to have a better life. No addictions, nude pictures or skeletons in the closet we can point, even after scavenging their internet history. Still working on Olga and Anna, but my guess is that they’ll also turn out to be exemplary citizens.”

“And why the forefinger?” Hector stroked his jaw with his palm in deep contemplation. There was something deeply unsettling about the ritualistic nature of the crimes, even if one overlooked the violence involved.

“Maybe the unsub felt they were accusing someone wrongfully – you know, _pointing fingers_ at someone - and wanted to teach them a very hard lesson.” Crowley extrapolated, examining a peculiar blood spatter on the wall and jotting down a couple of scrambled notes on his investigation pad.

“It could also be a wee bit more symbolic.” The Scottish profiler ventured, brushing his slightly crooked nose to mitigate the punishing scent of stale iron clouding the air. “In ancient times, it was the natural place to wear a crest or a signet. It could be a sign of some kind of membership or family tie that the killer wanted to erase in a definitive manner.”

“What about these symbols?” Kester asked, pointing with firmness towards the disconcerting wall. Hector took note of his commendable steadfastness, despite the haunting material in front of him and his undeniable newness at the job. “Our analysis team thought they might be _celtic_ symbols, maybe even some _gaidhlig_.”

“It isn’t that.” Hector assured vehemently. A flash of an unwanted memory - someone singing in _gaidhlig_ at a wake, his hand raising a glass - and then he was back in the dimness of the present room. “I ken I might sound almost like a _cockney_ at this point, but I had a bit of the _gaidhlig_ as a bairn, my parents were fluent, and I’ve never seen _these_.”

“Hello gentlemen.” The bulky coroner appeared at the door carrying a professional bag, patting his protuberant stomach and wobbling like a creature in advanced stages of pregnancy. “Sorry for the lateness, but the traffic was absurd because of some protest.”

“No problem, Doctor Callender.” Arnott said placidly, although Hector could swear he almost rolled his eyes. “There was _plenty_ here to keep us entertained in the meantime. We were just discussing these unfathomable doodles. If the killer wants to convey a message, he should really learn how to write in English.”

“Ah!” Charles Callender stopped in the process of adjusting his blue latex gloves and peeked curiously at the cryptograms, his face glowing with sudden recognition. “Well, that is the pagan symbol for “ _sleep”,_ I believe.”

Hector raised his dark brows in surprise and gawked at the coroner. “May I ask how you know that, Doctor?”

The older man looked thoroughly embarrassed, like someone on a strict diet caught with the entire arm inserted inside a chocolate cookie jar in the middle of the night. “Well, I had some trouble sleepin’ a few months gone. No camomile tea or medication helped, so my wife heard about this – erm – _wiccan practitioner_ that could maybe help. She gave me an amulet to place above the bed and it had that symbol on it.” He shrugged, trying to dismiss the fact that a _modern doctor_ sought to cure his insomnia resorting to mild _witchcraft_. “I’ve slept like a babe ever since.”

“ _Paganism._ ” Jeremy frowned, searching for Hector’s eyes in silent inquiry. During their short voyage, they had established that the unsub was probably a male on his late twenties to early thirties, but the new puzzle piece was a hard one to place, wielding too many edges to fit perfectly on the image.

“Well, whoever butchered the lasses used no spell to do the handywork, that’s for sure.” Hector said darkly and turned to gaze again at the painted wall.


	2. Address of a Witch

**II – _Address of a Witch_**

Hector mindlessly rubbed his left thigh with his palm, immersed in studying the evidence board coming alive in front of him. It was fairly late; every officer at the _Edinburgh’s Police Station_ , save from the nocturnal detachment, was already well into their second ale or whisky at the crowded pub in the street’s corner. But Hector Blackwood had always enjoyed the quietness of the night, the relationships that seemed easier to grasp at those small hours, as if plausible associations became lazier themselves and surrendered to him willingly.

“Is the scar nagging you today, Blackwood?” Jeremy asked gently, drinking from a coffee mug as he examined an autopsy report nearby.

Jeremy Crowley had joined the force only weeks before Hector’s arrival at the Yard and the two had learned much together. Although the posh Crowley family hailed from the affluent neighbourhood of Mayfair, his mother fell from grace when she married a Peckham hardworking, but fairly modest, plumber. The product of such an unexpected match was a man of impeccable manners, but surprisingly tough and perceptive. He was the closest thing to a friend Hector had managed to acquire in London and knew more about his past than anyone else in the department.

That didn’t mean Hector was always honest with him. Or that he knew the true depth of the brokenness that had become his second nature, the way he swept away a million shards underneath a rug of apparent normalcy.

“Just a wee throb.” Hector dismissed with a casual smirk, propping himself on top of the desk temporarily assigned to him.

_What I want is sixty of oxycodone straight up, Jeremy. A high beyond the clouds, so far away that I can’t even see myself down here._

“I think we have to work victimology here, Crowley. The murders are flashy and attention-seeking, but we need to step back and focus on the basics. How does the unsub find these women? What is the connection between them?”

The olive-skinned man bit the tip of the ball pen in his hand and turned the pages on his annotations. “The victims worked completely different professions and lived in separate neighbourhoods. No background of school attendance in common. Some were in committed relationships, some were single. No relevant hobbies standout to tie them together, either. Besides using _Instagram_ and _Twitter_ there’s not much here, but that also can be said about half of the world’s population.”

“It has to be somethin’ less visible.” Hector gnawed on his bottom lip, his eyes switching between the smiling faces of the victims hanging on the board, obliviously happy. “Perhaps some kind of activity they were all trying to hide.” 

“Well, there’s something on the testimony of Olga Simpson’s husband.” Jeremy said haltingly, as if the notion was almost too ridiculous to be uttered aloud. “He stated she was deeply spiritual and a true believer,” He cocked a brow dramatically, reading aloud from his notes. “Not in the good ol’ Christian faith though – _in the occult_ , Blackwood.”

“And ye think, wisely I must say, that coincidences don’t exist in our line of work and that those symbols and a reference to whammy begin to form a suggestive picture.” Hector tapped his long fingers against the photo of the wiccan symbols, in drumming interrogation. “We need to discover if the others were into the mumbo-jumbo too.”

“Any luck deciphering those?” The other agent yawned and rubbed his puffy eyes. It had been a long couple of days since their impromptu departure from England to Scotland.

“Mister _Google_ will only take us so far and my library is a bit low on conjuring books.” Hector impatiently adjusted his rumpled grey shirt, threatening to escape the orderly entrapment of the waistband of his black dress pants. “So far I have “ _sleep_ ”, “ _time_ ” and “ _truth_ ”.” He pointed to several symbols, ending on a series of rings encased within each other like a mouse trap. “I can’t seem to grasp the rest or to puzzle their meaning.”

“We’ll have to dig deep for this one.” Jeremy admitted, stretching his arms above his head and then mussing up his dark and thick hair. “If only the _Yard_ had a witch on call to assist us.”

Hector nodded silently – a wistful look dawning on his face - and fished the slim phone from his pocket, where he had saved the number of one Doctor Charles Callender.

“Doctor Callender!” He greeted him, when the man finally answered after a few blipping sounds. “I’m that sorry for disturbing ye, but I was wonderin’ if ye could point me in the direction of that self-proclaimed witch ye told us about yesterday?” Hector licked his lips and grabbed a pen to scribble down the information, listening intently. “Aye, I understand, but I’ll try it in any case.” The profiler emitted a string of low sounds, that could be interpreted both as mild agreement or growing impatience. “That’s braw. Thank ye! We’ll keep ye in the loop.”

“Well, then?” Crowley urged him, as soon as the black smartphone signalled the call’s end.

“Apparently the wee scam artist has a small tea company called _Wardwell’s Cup_.” Hector studied the gloomy letters of his handwritten notes, as if they would crack themselves open to reveal a cackling witch. “According to the good doctor, she is usually handling clients at the store, unless she is at the production’s atelier.” He raised a dark brow in his companion’s direction. “Callender tells me she receives _her other clients_ in a small back office at the store, but only by appointment, and only people she trusts.”

“Will we be shopping for some local tea tomorrow, then?” The black man guessed, brushing his lips with his knuckes.

“Keep sifting through those files, Crowley.” The green-eyed man shook his head, glancing again at the crime scene photos. “You have the sharpest eye I know. I’ll go and talk with the self-proclaimed _ban-druidh_.”

“What makes you think she’ll help us?” Jeremy asked, balancing his chin on a lazy hand. “Rather than turning you into a ghastly toad, as soon as you come in, pressing her?”

“For one, I have a _police badge_.” Hector neatly stacked files and transcripts on his desk, looking thoroughly unfazed. “And I also happen to be quite charmin’ when I want to, although I dinna use it much these days.”

***

The shop had been easy enough to find, sporting a big sign with a quirky blue teacup and soft lettering in a classical looking style of font. It occupied a good chunk of the vibrant street, almost eclipsing an old barbershop and a hipster-packed café in the vicinity.

When Hector pushed the establishment’s door, only a few minutes after opening time, a bell chimed gently above the entrance, in a sound as old and piercing as Edinburgh’s marrow.

The air whispered of herbs and spices, cardamom enraptured in dispute with cinnamon, garlic chives, hyssop, licorice and thyme, an inebriating atmosphere that almost formed a solid fist to greet him on a handshake. The walls were covered with spacious cabinets, which stretched almost to the high ceilings, filled with colourful boxes, artisanal teabags and diverse tea-making paraphernalia.

Blinking rapidly to adjust to such a charged - although not entirely unpleasant – environment, the criminal profiler spotted a woman standing behind the counter, immersed not in concocting some kind of gruesome potion, but in typing on a very modern-looking white laptop. The woman raised her eyes to salute him - a welcoming smile dawning on her soft full lips - and the striking colour and powerful secrets in her gaze threw him completely off balance for a moment. The brown of her pupils was almost indistinguishable from that of her irises, like the dilated eyes of a cat facing blinding light.

“May I help you, sir?” She requested politely, stepping away from her computer to place her slender hands professionally on the countertop.

“I’m looking for _Mrs. Wardwell_.” Hector answered calmly. “Is she by any chance around today?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled with what could only be described as unabashed amusement. “ _Mrs. Wardwell_ has been dead for many years, I’m sorry to say.” Hector offered her a slightly horrified look, before she continued. “I’m _Miss Wardwell_ , though. _Ophelia Wardwell_. How can I help you, _officer_?”

Hector studied her for a long moment – longer than what common curtsy certainly dictated -, furiously wondering what had given him away, within the timespan of a perfectly normal couple of sentences. Was his service gun showing on the holster around his ribcage? Had his badge inadvertently slid to the floor to expose him?

_So much for the element of surprise_.

In his mind’s eye, the agent had foreseen something different – someone different. While not exactly expecting pointy black boots, a broom under her arm and a wart on the tip of her nose, at least he had counted on extravagant dark clothes, heavy makeup and a pentagram choker. The woman standing in front of him, light brown hair surrounded by the scent of jasmine and clove, was dressed in nude tones of grey and ivory, bare-faced, and the only adornment to speak of was a delicate dove pendant dangling from a simple silver chain around her neck.

“Was I expected?” He asked haltingly, furrowing his brow. “Did someone from the station call to tell ye I was comin’, Miss Wardwell?”

“No.” Ophelia shrugged. “You just have that air about you, you know. The kind that demands answers and doesn’t like to be given a solid “ _no_ ”. You’re _Yard_ , are you not?” She smiled nonchalantly and began to adjust the gauzy material of a few teabags, pressing them into a gift cardbox with her company’s logo stamped on it. “Yesterday, _The Scotsman_ was filled with news of the criminal profilers sent by the _Yard_ to help catching the _Edinburgh’s Demon_.” She snorted, as if the mere idea was hilarious, but then her eyes darkened even further, to the hues of scorched earth after a wildfire. “Besides, some people still recall your time here _before_ , Hector Blackwood. I remembered your face from the news, a few years back.”

He held her gaze, even if his heart seemed to edge closer to the skin lining his sternum, and his leg throbbed relentlessly in phantom pain. “I have a few questions for you, ma’am, if that’s alright.”

Ophelia sighed deeply, abruptly stopping her task of packing herbal offerings. “I knew Olga and Lydia. They were both clients here – not exactly friends, but friendly. Came by at least twice a month for tea and a chat.”

Hector made a point of taking out his notepad and starting to scribble down, ignoring her increasingly dismayed look. “What did ye talk about, then?”

“All sorts of things.” The shop-owner answered vaguely. “Boring dates, what tea would be good for a nagging cold, general gossip…”

“And about _the craft_?” The profiler shot suddenly, noticing a slight hesitation before she offered him a lopsided mute smile. “Were they clients of yer _side-business_ , too?”

“Do you fancy a cup of tea, Agent Blackwood?” Ophelia turned her back on him in a relaxed manner and padded towards an ash wood door, almost hidden in the rear of the shop. “I think we’d be more comfortable in my office for this conversation.”


	3. Tasseography

**III – _Tasseography_**

Behind the ash wood door was a spacious room, substantially darker than the inside of the _Wardwell’s Cup_ front store. Still, that diffuseness didn’t feel like the dimness of depraved things, but more like the controlled atmosphere meant to protect old books and antique items.

Hector could identify hundreds of glass jars and wooden boxes, made of a myriad of different colours and shapes. There were also books aplenty, some neatly stored in a massive bookcase against the back of the space, others – probably the ones more frequently used – stacked in piles between the two worktables and the imponent desk. The writing table was built from beautiful white wood with an almost invisible grain, ivory-like, that Hector eventually identified as holly, one of the sacred trees of ancient times.

There were also other objects scattered around the surfaces, stranger and somehow more disturbing in their simplicity – a small silver bell, a pendulum, several knives in different sizes, candles and a totally black tea-set, with seven delicate-looking cups and a robust teapot, which sparkled like an onyx stone.

“Tea first, I think.” Ophelia said amiably, pointing him in the direction of a plush burgundy armchair in front of her desk. Hector nodded and tried not to stare openly around him, half-expecting her to go for the wicked looking set of porcelain. Instead, she retrieved a fairly common pair of teacups from a sideboard, reassuringly white with the rim embellished with soft pink lilies. “Do you have a preference?”

“Whichever ye’re having is fine.” The criminal profiler answered, studying the tea-maker as she prepared the infusion with the measured practice and solemnness of a ritual. After she offered him a cup, pungent with the fragrancy of mint and lemon verbena, Hector thought he had endured enough politeness for the time being.

“So, will ye tell me about the true nature of yer relationship with Olga Simpson and Lydia Montague, Miss Wardwell?”

The rumoured-witch sipped her tea placidly, blowing softly against the rim of the cup, a magnetic movement of her lips that drew gooseflesh on his arms. “They were faithful clients, almost since I founded the company a couple years back.” She nodded to herself, seemingly content either with the taste of the brewing or with the progress of the conversation. “And they were... _curious_ , about other subjects. Sympathizers, one might say.”

“Do ye mean that they were some kind of witch-groupies?” The man raised a brow, mechanically stirring the liquid with an odd-looking small teaspoon, the point carved like a coiled snake.

“I’m not a member of the _Beatles_ , Agent Blackwood.” Ophelia rolled her eyes, scrunching her perfectly perky nose. “They weren’t _groupies_. They were interested in some aspects of power and the barriers that stop most people from using it.”

““I gather from what ye’re sharing that they didn’t have any… _power of their own_. Whatever that might be.” Hector Blackwood smiled bitterly, silently reprehending himself for letting his own perspective on the subject so abundantly clear. He needed her help, as much as he was convinced that she was a blatant schemer.

Ophelia’s eyes fixed on his face, with an intensity that was almost predatory, and then they slowly descended to his upper left leg, where he felt her gaze like the two gunshots that had once pierced his flesh, hot and devastating. It was strange to be once again close to people who knew part of his story, even though they couldn’t possible fathom _him_.

When her lips moved, it felt like being underwater listening to the secrets of a siren, that he could never accurately reproduce. “Everyone has power. Maybe not what we’d prefer - but _some_. You won’t find any magical wands here, _Mister Blackwood_ , but there are still instruments – _conduits_ , if you’d like – that one might use to do…what I do.”

“And _what is that,_ exactly?” He raised his brow, his tone lowering to a not-so-subtle provocation. Hector was trying to draw her out, to force her to show more of herself openly. Most people revealed plenty with the simplest behaviours, like a choice of recurrent words or hand mannerism, but Ophelia Wardwell was _undecipherable_.

“More tea would be nice, wouldn’t it?” She didn’t wait for his answer, diligently grabbing his cup to refill it from the steaming teapot. Ophelia squinted at the bottom of his empty cup and then smiled, a lopsided movement of lips that was the true portrait of light-heartedness.

“Found something amusing there?” Hector asked, annoyed at the growing feeling of _rawness_ , of extreme and unwanted exposure. “I dinna believe in fortune-telling or in the reading of tea leaves, so spare me the telling of some grand adventure in my future, aye?”

“You put too much sugar in your tea.” She revealed cheerfully, deliberately ignoring his unfriendly remarks. “I don’t need to resort to tasseography to realize that you’ve already experienced too much bitterness in your life.” With ease, she returned him the teacup refilled with a second helping of the hot beverage. “Besides, there’s always more of someone’s past at the bottom of a cup than of the future. That’s the nature of the leaves themselves – they are the tea’s past.”

Hector offered her a narrow and cold emerald look, retrieving a pen from the inner pocket of his coat to scribble down some notes. “Do people really fall for these tricks?”

“Do people really fall for the brooding and intimidating approach?” She quirked her lips as if she was about to laugh aloud and with a strange twitch his pen fell from his hand, as if it had acquired a life of its own. The policeman bent down haphazardly to catch it, furrowing his brow. “I’m guessing there was something else you needed from me, Agent Blackwood, if you chose to come here in the first place. What brought you around, before I volunteered the information that I knew two of the victims?”

“I’m the one who should ask the questions here, Miss Wardwell.” He clenched his jaw and, before he could continue, his pen – which had been innocently resting on the table, after a stalled first attempt at escaping his possession – slid from the edge of the table and rolled happily away.

“Must be an air draft. _Edinburgh and old buildings_ , you know?” Ophelia sipped another generous gulp of her tea, her grin barely hidden behind the cup. “Ask away, Agent Blackwood. I’ll be happy to cooperate.”

Before Hector could explain the mysterious symbols that had led him to her door, and show her some of the illustrating crime scene photos, his phone vibrated inside his pocket.

_“Blackwood!”_ Jeremy greeted him from the other side of the line, with a hint of excitement and consternation in his voice. _“We have a fifth victim. Uniforms responded to a call from neighbours complaining of a dog that wouldn’t stop barking, and found another atrocious scene. Meet me there?”_

“Aye. Text me the location.” Hector said shortly and ended the call, when in all truth he wanted to yell a wholehearted _“Fuck!”._ “Miss Wardwell, I’m afraid our interview will have to be postponed. I might come by tomorrow for some further inquiries.”

“Of course.” She raised from her chair, the dove around her neck seemingly flapping her wings for a short fraction of time, that left Hector wondering about the true contents of his afternoon tea. “I’m not always here, so I’ll give you my home’s address in case you need to reach me.” She politely walked him to the door, the very impersonation of an impeccably mannered hostess.

“I’ll be in touch.” Hector said curtly. It was meant as a farewell, but somehow it sounded like a threat. Ophelia shrugged and waved him off, as he closed the door behind him with more firmness than usual.

Only when the young, yet seasoned, criminal profiler reached his car did he realize that he couldn’t really remember the details of Ophelia Wardwell’s face – only her striking eyes. It was as if she had hidden herself behind a curtain of undisturbed mist.

***

The scene in front of them was oddly, but not at all reassuringly, similar to the ones they had witnessed, either in firsthand or by way of photographs.

“Another woman. But I guess that’s not surprising.” Jeremy said in a murmur, shaking his head. He was wearier than usual, and a few wrinkles in his usually impeccable shirt denounced a bone-deep tiredness. “So far the forensic team couldn’t find any signs of forced entry -again.”

Hector nodded in agreement, their train of thought synchronized like a flock of birds during murmuration. “These women _know the unsub_. There’s no way around it, really. They willingly opened the door to let him in, probably entertained him for a while before things took a verra gruesome turn. They didn’t foresee any danger coming from that person.”

“But while they seem to know him, he doesn’t show any classical signs of regret or guilt, does he?” Jeremy pursed his lips in concentration. “The unsub didn’t cover their bodies or place them in any comfortable or nurturing position. Didn’t leave any tokens to show respect, as well.”

“Yes.” Hector sighed and crouched down, his eyes slowly trailing down the cold body of the most recent victim, as if her skin could whisper the name of the perpetrator through its pores. “But this also isn’t sexual. He doesn’t engage in sexual intercourse with them _perimortem_ , even if all of them were young and bonny. No evidence that he wanks in the scene or that he takes anything other than the forefinger to fantasize later.” His eyes searched for his companion’s. “This doesn’t seem like a true-born serial killer to me, to be honest. More like a hitman, eliminating specific targets for a very earthily reason.”

“I don’t know many hitmen that make such a spectacle of their killings, though.” They walked to the threshold of the room, watching as Kester gave instructions to some uniformed officers to collect statements with the neighbours. “Usually a revolver or a good piece of sturdy nylon around the neck. This scene took _time_ and _intention_.”

“Maybe all the production around the murder is the most important part of why he does it.” The dark-haired profiler theorized. “It can be all about _the ritual_.”

“We’re still waiting on her ID,” Jeremy brushed his shiny forehead. “But plenty of pictures around.” He pointed towards a large frame with his pen, where a photo of the victim surrounded by other women dwelled. She was abundantly black-haired, with a unique white streak in her bangs, and warm and sapient hazel eyes. All the faces depicted were either smiling broadly or making funny faces, as they sat around a beach bonfire.

“Blimey!” Hector’s jaw dropped, as he slowly approached the image and almost touched one of the women’s faces. “Crowley, I think that’s the woman I’ve just met at the teashop.”


	4. Conversations With Cats

**IV – _Conversations with Cats_**

Edinburgh was to him a plagued city, not with the stench of disease or the hurt of hunger, but with the pain of memories.

While Jeremy drove the car, humming softly along with one of the most recent pop songs playing on the radio, Hector’s eyes followed the ghosts of his own previous life passing by the window.

There, at the door of that crowded pub, he had been a lad of twenty-five, celebrating the great achievement of being selected to the ranks of the MI5 as a profiler, a pint in his hand bought by one of his many mates. Then, his life had expanded majestically, and he had been completely oblivious to the fact that he was merely riding on the back of a long wild snake, that would coil and pounce and bite him with poison.

Ten years later, sitting in a car paid for by the _Yard_ , Hector wished he could go back and pay that gullible young man a pint; maybe say farewell to himself in a way, take a second look at his own heart.

_I need to get the fuck out of this place._

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come too?” Jeremy asked, parking on an empty spot on the side of the street. “We could play _bad officer, good officer_. Well, from what you’ve told me of your first encounter, it wouldn’t be too hard to appear more pleasant and likable than you to the little witch.”

“It’ll be fine.” Hector smirked, grabbing his coat before he left the vehicle. “Keep working on a possible connection between the victims, Crowley. I’ll call ye later.” The Londoner playfully saluted him with two fingers, before he set the car into motion again, leaving Hector to identify the right door on the well-maintained street.

The night’s air was cool and moist like an open-mouthed kiss, and Hector rubbed his hands together as he climbed the few steps to the number _13th of Nightingale Way_. Flower beds and short bushes sided the entrance, abundant yet tamed, with a cacophony of scents from sweet grass to lavender, from star anise to aloe.

He pressed the doorbell button of the apartment _3C_ and waited patiently, until a buzzing sound announced the opening of the latch’s mechanism. When he finally completed the ascent to the third floor, silently thankful for his good level of fitness, Ophelia Wardwell’s head peeked curiously from the door. It was as if he was rediscovering something strangely familiar after a long absence, when one can’t exactly remember what’s the reality of its likeness, and what is construct of longing and imagination.

“Oh.” She raised her brows, the corner of her lips twitching rapidly. “ _It’s you_.”

“Indeed.” Hector said placidly, shifting weight between his long legs. He was used to being the tallest person on every room, commanding that slightly peculiar and solitary perspective of the world; however, the tea-maker was only a couple inches shorter, which was quite remarkable for a woman.

Ophelia was wearing rich-brown skinny pants, paired with a large caramel sweater with an oblique neckline and soft chelsea boots. The dove was ever-present, seemingly soaring above the broad extent of fertile land of her neckline.

“May I come in, Miss Wardwell? I’m sorry to disturb yer evening, but I’m afraid it’s a rather pressing matter.”

“At your own risk, Agent Blackwood.” Ophelia admonished between mocking and seriousness, before she retroceded a step and opened the door fully to allow him in.

When Hector entered the spacious living room, a division where rustic and modern dwelled in perfect harmony, several female faces turned to gawk at him. He halted for a second, thoroughly taken aback, but made a conscient effort to remain composed and with a semblance of studied aloofness. Six youngish women occupied the space, either perching on the comfortable leather sofa, lounging in large cushions on the floor or casually leaning against the bookcase.

“Have I interrupted some kind of party, Miss Wardwell?” Hector cocked a brow, glancing at Ophelia who had followed him to the room.

“Just a business meeting.” The owner of Wardwell’s Cup said serenely.

“Now that ye’ve arrived, maybe we can start a _real party_ , lad.” A blonde woman cooed, her blue eyes like the cursed gemstones of fallen empires, glimmering against her flowy black dress. “I’ve been meanin’ to try a –“

“I think Agent Blackwood wishes to speak to me in private.” Ophelia’s voice sounded calm, but the underlying tone of authority was unmistakable. “I’ll see you all at Maud’s on Sunday, ladies. Have a good and safe night.”

A black-haired woman nodded and clicked her fingers, heading towards the door without even the curtsy of a goodbye. The rest of the women promptly followed, throwing Hector glances that went from _curiosity_ , to _beguilement_ , to _hostility_.

“Let me just tidy up some, so you have somewhere to sit.” The occultist moved quickly to collect scattered crockery and to fluff the pillows.

As she headed towards the adjacent kitchen, a lean white cat appeared around the corner, swaggering like a famous runway model under the attentions of camera flashes. With a graceful jump, it installed itself on the counter, close to where Ophelia stood.

“Oh, _shut up_.” The witch grunted between teeth, throwing the prancing cat a narrow, disgruntled, look. The feline had been silent until that moment, but in response to her rebuttal it tilted its head and meowed, a prolonged yet soft sound. “ _No_.”

“Excuse me?” Hector hawked and stared at her questioningly. Ophelia looked above her shoulder, looking slightly flustered, as she finished to place glasses and plates inside the dishwasher.

“This is Akuba.” In spite of her irritated look, she gently caressed the white cat between its pointy ears. “He descends from a long line of pestering house cats, who think themselves ferocious tigers. He adopted me nearly ten years ago, during a trip to Japan.”

“Do you talk much to him?” The criminal profiler asked slowly, fearing that her insanity extended far beyond the realms of sorcery.

“Not as much as he talks to me. He is _my familiar_.” Ophelia said matter-of-factly. “It was an accident, you know. I wanted to read his mind, just for a moment, but botched the spell and ended up with an immensely awkward ability to listen to all cats and never figured how to reverse it.” She shrugged and threw him a significant look, an infuriating one. “But you don’t believe in magic, do you? So, you can just assume I’m a raving spinster who chats with her cat.” 

“Julia Montague is dead.” Hector said in a deep, steady, voice. “I saw yer picture in her house, so I ken ye must have been friends. I’m sorry.”

“ _No_.” Ophelia gasped, closing her eyes. Her trembling hand touched the dove pendant for a brief moment, as if she was seeking its solace; as one would touch a sacred cross to ward off evil. “ _How_?”

“Same as the others.” He searched her eyes, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation. “So far, ye’re the closest thing to a connection we have between the victims, Miss Wardwell. So once again I ask ye – what was yer relationship with Lydia, Olga and Julia?”

“Am I under some kind of suspicion?” The owner of _Wardwell’s Cup_ held his gaze, brushing away a strand of light brown from her forehead. “Should I call a lawyer?”

“No.” Hector assured her, mindlessly playing with his fingers and observing her intently. Although she was visibly distressed by the news, still her behaviour and intentions were very hard to puzzle, even for a trained mind. “But since ye seem to have some sort of friendship with the lasses, I assumed ye’d want to help finding the person responsible for their deaths, aye?”

Ophelia breathed deeply, as if steadying herself for a deep plunge. Akuba jumped to her lap, perching itself precariously on her knee, and glared threateningly at the _Yard_ officer.

“Alright, Agent Blackwood. I’ll tell you my truth – if you’ll meet me in its grounds is for you to decide afterwards.” She licked her lips and entwined the elegant fingers of her hands, her short fingernails clean and polished. “Lydia and Olga were _beginners_. You were right in your assessment that they didn’t possess a significant expertise in the craft – they came to me for help in discovering if they could practice at all.” Akuba’s tail wagged rhythmically, like a metronome setting the tempo of her words. “They could do very simple enchantments with the appropriate conduits, no more than that. The purists amongst us would be against them practicing at all.”

“And Julia?” Hector kneaded the space between his dark brows, feeling a fierce headache coming into the horizon of his brain.

“Julia is – was – an accomplished witch. Powerful.” Ophelia’s eyes were harrowing, darker than ever before, and Hector held on to the lines of her face in that moment, stubbornly fighting against any future lapse of memory. “She belongs to the _Alba Coven._ ”

“A coven?” The police officer suddenly recalled _Macbeth’s_ three weird sisters. _Thane of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor, King of Scotland_. They had been the beginning of the end.

“Yes. It’s a gathering of witches, to learn together, practice our craft, do some particular rituals. It’s an ancient way to protect ourselves and to keep the more daring practitioners in line.” She pressed her lips together. “The _Alba Coven_ is the eldest in Edinburgh and one of Scotland’s oldest gatherings.”

“And ye belong to this cult – _coven_ – too?”

“No.” Ophelia said haltingly, as if her choice of words was of vital importance. “I’m a solo practitioner. I have cordial relations with them, as well as with some other clans, but my craft is my own.”

“And have you heard of Esther Bloomfield and Anna Sterling – the other victims -, Miss Wardwell? Are they tied to the wiccan world, as well?” Hector pressed, watching half-fascinated, half-irked, as Akuba pawed Ophelia’s fingers, as if it was lending her its reassuring support.

“Not to my knowledge.” The woman shook her head, her delicate chin resolute. “But I don’t know every single witch in town. I can ask around, though.”

“Aye, I’d appreciate if you did.” Hector hesitated, the growing headache pressing on his skull, as he furiously dealt with information that was as interesting as utterly absurd. He opened the faint brown cover of the file he had been carrying and placed a few photos on the coffee table. “These are crime scene photos. They can be disturbing, but I have to ask ye to look at them and tell me if these symbols mean somethin’ to ye.”

The witch leaned over to better peek at the photographs and Hector enjoyed the occasion to observe her face openly, in a more brazen manner than what politeness and professionalism would dictate.

In the helix of her left ear a minuscule tattoo represented three separate black dots, without any lines uniting them, but faintly evoking an imperfect triangle. Her lashes were long and her skin immaculate, like the rarest commodity sailors would travel the stormiest seas to possess. For a second, it felt like he was entering her somehow, _what she was_ , and her nearness felt like vertigo.

“I don’t understand it all,” Ophelia whispered, her striking brown eyes widening. “But I think none of us is safe.”


	5. The Eraser

**V – The Eraser**

“And you believed everything Ophelia Wardwell told you?” Jeremy asked suspiciously, his eyebrows almost merging with his hairline from growing awe. First thing that morning, Hector had briefed both his partner and Kester Arnott on his puzzling conversation with the conjurer the previous night.

Most of it, anyway. Somehow, he didn’t think he was entitled to share the knowledge that she talked with her cat.

“Spells, conduits of power and sisterhoods of witches.” Hector numbered with his long fingers, shrugging and shaking his head. “I mean, the lass is clearly delusional, but somehow I dinna think she is an outright liar. Besides, when we investigate an unsub it’s not about what we believe, but what he believes to be real _._ To find a common headspace is the only sure way to bring him down - and in this case, we canna deny the connection to the supernatural.”

“Let’s entertain that idea, then.” Kester hawked and threw the Yard agents an apologetic glance, as if he was about to reveal himself a wicked changeling. “She told you those symbols looked like a curse, yes? Of what kind, then, and against whom?”

The Scottish profiler scratched his growing stubble. “Well, according to Miss Wardwell, while some spells can be performed by anyone with the appropriate tools, the vast majority is personal and singular to a witch. They read like lines of a poem in a foreign language to others.” He cleared his throat, slightly uncomfortable. “However, she sensed it involved at least an attempt to harness power when it – well, left the victims.” Hector grimaced, acutely aware of the gibberish quality of his words. “She is convinced other witches are in danger.”

“Okay.” Jeremy pressed his lustrous temple. “Is she going to give us a list of names, so we can look into possible future victims?”

“I don’t think they are registered in some data base, that she can simply share wi’ us.” Hector clicked his tongue in impatience. “Ophelia seems fairly open about it, but she warned me some would go to great lengths to hide their activities from others. It’s a bizarre circle.”

“You two realize that the name of our unsub is probably amongst that crowd too, hm?” Arnott quirked a brow. “If the bloody thing is some sort of imaginary spell, then there’s a witch or a – well, shite, a warlock, I guess – behind it.” 

“Have you asked her about the missing fingers?” Jeremy asked, re-examining a pile of disconcerting photographs. “Is that a _witch thing_ , too?”

“Well, she didna have any in a cookie jar that I could see.” Hector smirked. “But I might ask her today, when she comes by to tell me if she could find anything about Esther and Anna.”

“Be careful with the woman, Blackwood.” Crowley admonished, a deep crease of concern forming between his ragged brows. “She might be more involved than what she is leading you to believe.”

“Aye, I will.” Hector tried to recall her elusive face, escaping him once more, stubbornly immune to his summoning. He briefly wondered if he was losing his mind, if he was surrendering it to a creeping mist, in a city that had already taken everything else. “The unsub will kill again soon – we need to get a step ahead.”

***

Detective Arnott had apologized for leaving the station early, but his wife Linda was celebrating her birthday that day, and had threatened to deprive her husband of his bollocks if he didn’t arrive on time. Jeremy had accepted an invitation for a pint with the other lads of Edinburgh’s force, insisting that Hector accompanied them, which he had politely refused.

Hector was once again almost alone at the station, his tired eyes devouring the coroner’s report on the last victim, in search of some hidden clue. When he worked on a case, it felt like being permanently fevered, half-delirious with the need to solve it.

“Hope I’m not interrupting.” A slightly posh English accent spoke from the door. He turned to watch as Ophelia Wardwell reluctantly entered the space, donning a grey maxi dress with long sleeves in a practical fabric, where she had attached a badge with the word _“Visitor”._ “The agent outside told me I could come through.”

“Hello, Miss Wardwell.” Hector greeted her with a nod, quickly closing the file he had been reading, and raising from the chair. The room was illuminated by the faint yellow light of a lamp at his desk, beckoning plenty of shadows at the corners. “Do ye bring me any news?”

“Anna was definitely into the craft.” She revealed without preamble. “Discrete and a bit of a loner. Still making inquiries about Esther.”

“She’ll be connected to it as well, I’m certain.” The profiler assured, pressing his fleshy lips into a fine line.

The newly arrived woman studied him fixedly, as if she was pondering on adding something else; but, instead, picked up a frame that had been neatly tucked at the corner of his desk, almost totally concealed from prying eyes.

“Is that you, when you were little?” The witch asked, half-mastered curiosity making the corners of her deep brown eyes crinkle. “What a sweet boy!”

“No.” The criminal profiler, said slowly, the rapid thrum of his blood faintly echoing the cries of a drowning man. “That’s my – _my son_. Finlay.”

“Oh.” Ophelia’s eyes widened, seeming even more all-encompassing, and she fidgeted with the edge of the frame, before her fingers slipped slowly away and she placed it back on its rightful place. “I didn’t – is he back at London?”

“No.” Hector hawked and placed his hands inside his pockets, a pose that would seem casual if not for the tense – almost bizarre – stance of his shoulders. “He doesn´t live with me, but wi’ his grandparents down in Canterbury.”

“Do you see him often?” The witch questioned, a gentleness about her every word that made the hole inside his chest cavity feel somewhat replenished, his battered body embraced.

“I – I havena seen the lad in over three years.” He shared, turning to brace his hands on the nearby windowsill. “He has just turned seven last week.”

“It must be very difficult for you.” She said with a significant measure of empathy, of warmth in her disconcerting eyes. The throb on his head was starting, like a crescendo wind howling, warning him to close the windows of his soul. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who would be fine with not raising his own son.”

“I was a cocky bastard back then.” Hector chuckled bitterly. “After I joined the service, I was assigned a couple of simple enough cases. Straightforward. I felt like my cock was twice its size with pride that I was proving myself amongst the best. It made me arrogant.”

“What happened?” Ophelia asked, her brow furrowed in concentration, as if the puzzle of him was finally about to be solved, the last piece fit to perfection.

“Ye ken it already. Everybody kens it. _The Eraser_ happened.” The police officer avoided her gaze, his jaw clenching until his teeth felt sore. “A serial murderer killing politicians and high-profile individuals – Edinburgh was chaos back in those days; influential people were fleeing to the countryside to hide and wait it out. I convinced my superior that I could outsmart _The Eraser_ and uncover his identity.”

“But he knew, didn’t he?” The tea-maker said softly, more in order to spare him the fatal words than out of an eagerness to show her knowledge. “That you were hunting him?”

“He did.” Hector breathed deeply, his palms pressing against the side of his legs. “And he came for me – but I wasna alone that night. _”_

Silence tiptoed between them, its elbows almost hitting them on their ribcages, its fingertips mindlessly brushing against their cheeks in phantom touch; it was an overwhelming presence in the room, that seemed unsurmountable, until Hector spoke again.

“I knew Amelia Harris since university. We studied Psychology together, but I diverged to behavioural studies and her to clinical practice. Meeting her and falling in love wi’ her was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. By the time she got pregnant, we were already engaged.” Hector shared in short bursts of speech, as if those words were a thick miasma clouding his blood and making him profoundly ill. “The day of Finlay’s birth was the happiest day of my life. We planned our wedding for the time he would turn two – a big family gathering, make it one big celebration.”

Ophelia’s eyes focused on his straining left hand, as if she could see the golden ring that was never there, the promises of love and light that had simply vanished. “But that never came to pass.”

“No.” He whispered. “One night we came home from dinner. Finlay was staying with friends of ours that day, to play with their children. He was already in the house when we got inside.” A pause, a couple of shallow breaths. “I was laughing about something Amelia had said and then I felt a presence on the hallway. He shot me first and I was still smiling when I fell.” His fingertips grazed his left thigh, were the bullets had crossed the firmament of his body, destructive like asteroids on an unstoppable collision course. “He didna want me dead. He wanted me to see. To know _she would die because of me_ \- because of my audacity.”

Ophelia’s hand hovered above his shoulder and the warmth of her was there, on his skin, even if the touch never fully bloomed to life. “ _I’m sorry_.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling ye all these things.” Hector confessed in a voice that was like crystal shattered on the floor, pieces scattered on every corner, that he could never retrieve. “I haven’t talked about this with anyone in a long time.”

“Sometimes we need to tell our own truth,” Ophelia said softly. “And know that we still can.” She hesitated, but eventually asked, “Did you decide for Finlay to go live with his grandparents after that?”

“No. It wasn’t my decision.” His generous mouth contorted on a rueful smile. “ _The Eraser_ stopped killing afterwards and his trail became completely cold. He was never caught. Finlay’s mother was dead, and I had only grief to sustain me while I recovered.” Hector’s green eyes turned to her, cold but somewhat pleading. “ _And then I fucked up everything_.”


	6. Opioids

**VI – Opioids**

Somewhere in an adjoining room, a lonely police officer typed rapidly, his fingers chasing the end of a long day throughout a delayed report. It was the only sound permeating the terrible silence that crushed Hector’s head from the inside out.

He wanted to stop talking – needed to, really. The criminal profiler craved to lock the door and avoid the escape into open daylight of all his little criminals - thoughts and emotions that had stood trial during his downfall, and had been committed to imprisonment to allow him to function. Barely.

“Do ye know what’s worse than waking in the middle of the night, searching for someone that ye’ll never find again?” He said regretfully, when speech was again possible, even if his voice seemed that of a complete stranger. “The moment you stop. The moment you realize it is no longer possible.”

“It must have been a very long recovery.” Ophelia said gently, sitting on the chair on the opposite side of Hector’s desk.

"I went through a couple of surgeries. But I had some degree of nerve damage on my leg, that gave me chronic neuropathic pain. It was always raw and aching." The criminal profiler tapped with his fingers on the desk, a cadence akin to the jolts of excruciating pain that once had trekked his body. "I didn't respond that well to most first line treatments, so they eventually gave me oxycodone. Reluctantly, I must say - it isn’t a very common practice on this side of the big pond, as I hear."

Another long silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of the invisible hardworking officer, finally putting an end to his overtime, yawning and whistling cheerfully as he padded towards the station's exit, daydreaming about a pint judging by the lightness in his gait.

“I've tried to convince myself, since then, that pain was just too great. That I did what I did out of a true necessity to survive. There would be mercy and even some absolution in that lie." Hector confessed haltingly, avoiding her all-knowing gaze. "But the truth is that I wasna escaping pain. I was riding on the numbness the painkillers offered me; I was enjoyin' the hours where thoughts couldn't find me. If ye don’t remember the substance of time, ye can exist freely in the before."

"You became addicted?" Ophelia guessed, a painstaking kindness about her every word.

"Aye." Hector gripped his left fist tightly and then opened it, detachedly studying the lines of his palm, as if they belonged to a missing man. "At first I could pace myself. I took a few extra pills when Finlay wasna around, so I could sleep and maybe make a meal and be presentable to pick him up from daycare. After some time, I took several at night even when he was asleep in his room down the hallway. I'm not even sure I would have heard him if he cried for me, Ophelia. That’s how disgusting and shameful I’d become."

"You don't need to tell me more, Agent Blackwood." She offered in a measured whisper, her fingertips brushing reassuringly against the short nails of his hand.

"Soon enough I was high all the time." He ignored her and proceeded, the dimness of the room like a peculiar confessional, a blackhole in space where all sins could be lost. "Of course, my doctors quickly realized I was abusing the prescriptions they gave me. The thing about being an officer of the law is that ye become very familiar with certain parts of the underworld." He pursed his lips, the scrape of his teeth a delicious pain, to which he was grateful not to be immune anymore. "I did unspeakable things to get high one more time, Miss Wardwell, that I can never hope to atone for in this lifetime."

"And your son?" The modern witch touched his forearm and the skin underneath her palm felt to Hector like a new lung, able to breathe on its own, greedy and panting.

"I couldn't fool people anymore. What I was doing - the pitiful state I was in - was apparent to everyone with two functioning eyes, aye? Amelia's parents took legal action to get Finlay's custody. I'm ashamed to say, I was under influence even as I talked to the judge. They won, of course, and took Finlay to live with them in Canterbury. He hadn’t even turned four.”

"And they didn't allow you to see him?" Ophelia furrowed her brow, her wild eyes darkening considerably. "Even after you proved yourself?"

"I visited him sporadically in the beginning; after a while, they thought it best not to confuse him and prohibited most contact. I canna fault them to try and protect the lad, as much as it pains me to be away from him. It's the only thing that allows me to sleep at night, to know him safe." Hector’s penetrating eyes fixed on the frame, where his son still rested under his dutiful guardianship. "Now that I'm proper again and have been sober for years, I have sued for a revision on custody. But I need to do right by him and keep the mandatory distance until court says otherwise."

"Did you move to London to be closer to him, then?" The witch smiled, a renewed tenderness about the set of her mouth, touching the silver dove on her neck in passing.

"I was dismissed from the MI5. Officially, because of the injuries I sustained; but in reality, because of my dishonourable conduct. Once I did my time in rehabilitation, Alistair MacRae offered me a job down in London. He was a good mate of my parents and took a gamble in accepting a spoilt agent. I owe him a great deal." He gave her a lopsided smile, more rueful than honest. "Being closer to Finlay was a substantial incentive not to fuck it up again, I’ll admit."

"I'm glad you told me your tale, Agent Blackwood." Her face was fierce, even with the yellow light of the lamp waltzing in her orbs. "Since I've shared some of my own secrets - and probably will entrust you with a lot more, before all of this is said and done -, it's nice that we have an accurate measure of each other."

"Can I trust ye not to divulge what ye've learned about my past, Miss Wardwell? Agent Crowley kens a good part of it and it's all in my Yard file to be sure, but some people dinna take kindly to a man's past and make it forever his present."

"Of course." Ophelia nodded solemnly and winked at him with a playful glint in her eyes. "Witches are the best at keeping secrets. We have a lot of training since a very early age."

"I meant to ask ye, if ye have any ideas about the missing fingers of our victims?" Hector's voice adopted a far more composed and professional inflection, as he fished some crime scene photographs and carefully displayed them on the table for Ophelia to admire. "Given what ye've told me, I was wondering if a certain coven could have some kind of membership ring that the killer would take?"

"I know some do." Ophelia pressed her lips together, as if she was afraid of spilling too many secrets at once. "And some witches use personal items, like signet rings, as conduits of power to practice the craft. It's entirely possible the murderer took the rings with the fingers.”

"We need to stop that sodding bastard, before it kills again." Hector scratched his growing dark stubble in impatience, his bright green eyes darting rapidly between images. "I might need ye to compile a list of – _hm_ – witches for us to look into; if they agree to have their names passed on, for protection purposes. Can ye do that?"

"You ask almost the impossible of me, Mister Blackwood." Ophelia sighed and grabbed her long coat, coloured like the feathery chest of a dove. "I should go and leave you to your work."

"I think I'll walk out wi' ye, if you dinna mind." Hector proposed, rubbing the back of his neck, a _hot-but-cold_ sense of nervousness prickling his wame. "I could use some cold air to clear my head and a leg stretch."

Ophelia gave him a piercing look and nodded in acquiescence, so the criminal profiler picked up his jacket and verified the holster of his service gun, before stepping outside with her.

They took the gravel path through the adjacent park, walking together in silence as the wind professed unspeakable reminiscences to the crackling branches. The space was almost entirely empty, joggers and children spooked by the long shadows and piercing cold temperatures.

Perched on the squalid trees surrounding the path, a gathering of birds chirped loudly, rather like an assembly of angry neighbours. As they walked beneath the shadow of the dancing leaves, the starlings’ song progressively stopped, until they seem to leave a trail of unnatural silence in their wake. Hector reluctantly conjectured if Ophelia's presence might be responsible for the birds' bizarre behaviour.

“Tell me what you’re thinking?” The woman pleaded suddenly, holding his elbow to stop him from getting ahead. The officer turned to glance at her, marvelling with the realness of her face, so close and so completely striking.

“There’s something about ye, Miss Wardwell.” Hector’s voice was slurred, tilting his head to better memorize her long burnt-blonde lashes and the light freckles on her cheekbones, the dust of stars shining in the distance of millions of light-years. “Something that I canna quite grasp, but that makes me think wild things are here.”

“Do you want to come over to my place?” The witch asked softly, the back of her hand brushing tentatively – _enticingly_ \- against the knuckles of his ungloved fingers, a bone’s song for their skin to whistle and sigh with longing.

“Why?” Hector asked in a husky voice, as he examined her with a mixture of desire and apprehension. “What will happen if I come wi’ ye?”

The tea-maker studied him intently, the edges of her somehow softer, as if she had finally surrendered and found rest in his shadow after a long journey crossing barren land. Her thumb came up and pressed itself gently against the centre of his forehead, as their eyes met fully. “Your head hurts when you’re around me, doesn’t it, Mister Blackwood?” Ophelia licked her lips and offered him a somewhat shy half-smile. “There’s pain in it for you. I think it’s my magic – it has been calling out to you. I've heard it could be like that; with a man, meant for a witch.”

"Meant for ye, am I?" He quirked a brow, puzzled yet somewhat pleased. Somewhere between his belly and chest, something curled in fear – terror, with tinges of despair – at the thought of being known by a woman again. "Don't I have a say in the matter? We’ve met less than a handful of times."

"You do." The practitioner shrugged, as if the matter was practically settled. "And yet, you seem to choose to trail the path closer to me, rationality none withstanding. Maybe a witch is also meant for you."

“Even if I can’t believe in superstition?” The criminal profiler frowned, incapable of looking away from the spell of her brown eyes of a million hues. “To believe in sorcery can be a verra dangerous thing indeed. Once ye’ve accepted it, other impossible things might start to seem reasonable again, aye? Fetches, demons and monsters lurking in the dark. More so, the ability to change what's gone, to see our dead risen again." His breath caught, as the palms of his generous hands framed her delicate face. He was relieved she didn’t break into a million silvery crystals when touched. "These are the sort of tempting boundaries an addict like myself shouldna trespass, Ophelia. My reality is fragile enough as it is, always on the verge of breaking away."

"You asked what would happen." The occultist stared at him daringly, the warmth and nearness of her body akin to unspoiled clay for his hands to shape. "All sorts of things, I believe, as long as we're both willing." She leaned further against his body, whispering close to his ear. "And if nothing else, there's always plenty of tea around."

"What ye're suggesting breaks just about a hundred rules of work conduct, my partner's advice of keeping a safe distance from ye and my own better judgment." Hector shook his head and slowly, tantalizingly, brushed her full bottom lip with his index finger. "Ye're a person of interest in this investigation and mighty unreadable. Kissing ye would be setting myself for absolute failure, hm?"

“What are you waiting for, then?” She provoked him, placing the smallest of kisses against his fingertip, the brush of her tongue barely present. There was something unspeakably sensual about her restraint, that made his cock twitch. “You should take _a_ step back, Hector Blackwood.”

“I canna.” He said darkly, before decidedly entwining their hands together and pulling her towards the path. “You make me recall things that have been gone from me for too long.”


	7. The Dove

**VII – The Dove**

As they walked towards Ophelia’s house, it started to rain.

Neither of them had an umbrella and that part of Edinburgh’s streets allowed for little protection, so soon enough they were both drenched as they raced on the slippery pavement.

Even so, Hector didn’t let go of the witch’s hand.

They stood on a crosswalk, waiting for the traffic light to turn green, stomping their feet to keep the adrenaline going and to prevent cold from biting them through the muscle. A speeding car bolted across a massive puddle of water on the roadside, causing a considerable wave of murky liquid in their direction.

“May your cock shrivel like a raisin, you tit!” Ophelia cursed the careless driver, waving her hands pointlessly to dispel splashes of water.

Hector snorted in laughter and collected a large drop from her cheek with his thumb, pressing it longer than necessary against her chilled skin, until their eyes met fully in an all-consuming connection.

"Let's go." The witch finally whispered, long after the traffic light had turned green, allowing them to cross into the edge of _Nightingale Way_. Number 13th was exactly as Hector remembered from his previous visit – a slightly misplaced burst of life in a dull street, the powerful scent of rosemary and mint enhanced by the downpour.

"Give me your coat, I'll put it to dry." Ophelia offered, as soon as they got inside her house. Hector half-expected to find another crowd of disconcerting women gathered, but only Akuba awaited them. The white cat, with magnetic blue eyes, seemed to smirk smugly under its long whiskers. "Please, make yourself at home – I'll just change out of these clothes, if you don't mind."

Without giving him time to answer, she disappeared through the door at the end of the hallway, and the policeman rolled up the soggy sleeves of his shirt, wondering if he should start brewing some tea after all.

Ophelia came back from her room wearing practical grey pants and a light silk white shirt, an ivory shawl hugging her delicate frame, as if she had decided against being too exposed. Hector wondered if rain had made a waterfall of the curve of her breasts, breaking into land he wished to explore with his mouth. She came to stand immediately in front of him, unhurriedly, a hint of defiance in her enigmatic expression.

"You can still change your mind, you know?" The owner of _Wardwell’s Cup_ offered, intently studying his inscrutable face. "Follow your gut feeling and leave before it's too late for the both of us."

He tilted his chin almost imperceptibly, his hands slowly moving to hold her firmly by the waist. "Right 'bout now, my gut is screamin' for me to put my mouth over yers, _ban-druidh_."

Hector kissed her slowly then, tracing her upper lip with his half-opened mouth, too afraid of experiencing her all at once, in case she would swallow him whole leaving no trace behind. Then her bottom lip became the source of his command, deliciously full and marginally tasting of wild berries. He feared the moment their tongues would collide, and he would irredeemably be lost to her.

With a greedy sound, Ophelia's hands found purchase at his nape, and her tongue burst through his tight self-imposed control, scorching every place it touched.

Experiencing a strange detachment, Hector realized she was exactly the type of drug he craved, powerful and akin to little crystals entering his veins, and that he was opening himself to addiction once more. He had thought he might get honest answers from her this way – he would question her body as he couldn't question her mind –, but she was as ahead of him in this form of interrogation, as she had been all along.

With a grunt, he palmed her arse and pushed her against him, barely stopping himself from grinding madly against the curves of her spellbinding body. Her leg started to crawl up his knee, as if she were trying to trap him in nearness with the ropes of her lust, and soon enough he had her on top of a dresser, her thighs firmly wrapped around his waist.

Panting audibly, they came apart for a moment, the profiler taking notice of the delightful flush of her neck, now barely hidden underneath her discomposed shawl. Hector hooked his fingers at the tips of the knitted fabric, slowly dislodging it from the slopes of her body, but using it as a cocoon to keep her against him. Her skin smelt of perfectly brewed and fragrant tea, burning his throat with a hot liquid desire; dark and frightening, because he was sure she knew all about it, as she had known about his past at the bottom of his cup.

Offering him a daring look, the witch vigorously palmed the noticeable bulge on the front of his pants, and he licked the soft skin between her clavicles, forcing the fabric until the top button of her shirt popped open. "Christ, ye're _wayward_ , lass."

There had been a couple of women since Amelia. One addict like himself, in a decrepit house with oxycodone to share, an impenetrable haze starting way before an orgasm hit him. Another woman, when he was already down in London, shortly after he had left rehabilitation, when a craving for oblivion had been almost unbearable. But this time he was awake, painfully so _,_ and he knew Ophelia was a choice he had to make.

As she bit his bottom lip, making him hiss and moan, he slid a determined hand down her stomach, imposing itself over the waistband of her trousers to meet her heat, pleasantly contrasting with the coldness of his fingers after the storm. He wondered if she was aching there, if pain was something he could give her too, somehow.

A loud meowing momentarily distracted the officer from his careful planning of ravishing the pliable woman in his arms, making him turn his head to search for its source.

“Is he - hm - is he going to stay right there?” Hector asked awkwardly, side-eying an overly attentive Akuba. The familiar sat by the door, looking simultaneously interested and nonplussed.

"He _lives_ here." Ophelia laughed, throwing the feline a fond and undeniably amused look. Her brown-almond hair looked wavier after drenched by the rain, making her wilder, rougher. "Is he bothering you?"

"Ye said ye could understand him. _Communicate_ with him, somehow." The criminal profiler stated slowly. "I'm not sae sure I want to know what he thinks of what I'm about to do to ye."

The occultist raised her brows. "He is my familiar and my protector. Afraid of some minor judgement from another male, are you? Quite undignifying, Mister Blackwood."

"Since I have my hand between yer legs," He whispered huskily against her ear. "Maybe ye should stop calling me ‘ _Mister Blackwood_ ’".

She laughed, a chortle that wasn't a bell forced to chime by human hands, but pure like a toll in the softest breeze. "Does that mean you'll be fucking _Ophelia_ and not _Miss Wardwell_? The woman you confessed your darkest secrets to, not the witch who challenges you?"

"Whoever ye are, I can handle ye.” His voice sounded hoarse, the slight movement of her hips against his arousal making him unbridled. The usual throbbing headache was growing with her proximity, until he was almost blind, either from need or soreness. He didn't remember the last time he had wanted a woman as much and felt as raw – if ever. “But I canna be _Officer Blackwood_ as I’m inside ye. I need ye to call me Hector _. Please_.”

“You heard him. Leave us, Akuba, if you will.” She sighed towards the cat, unbuckling Hector’s belt with a skilled hand. “I’m safe with _Hector_.”

With his trousers pooling around his ankles and his moist shirt glued to the alabaster of her naked breasts, he did call her Ophelia by the end. It was desperate and primal and over before too long. Hector found that he couldn’t close his eyes, not even during his release, as they seemed trapped in the burnt umber horizon of her gaze, like an insect perpetually amidst flight.

Afterwards, the tea-maker led him to her room. It was simple and comfortable, with barely any hint of her supernatural activities, except a very tall candle – almost his height – that burned quietly in the corner. They laid in bed together, finally stripping off their last pieces of clothing. Her body was slender and long, agile but not muscular, with only hints of generosity in the curves of her waist and breasts, constellations of light freckles twinkling in her torso and navel.

Ophelia seemed to study the hard planes of his belly and chest, slowly tracing him with the sharp pencil of her gaze, and he felt self-conscious in a way that went beyond flesh and bone, as if the scars on his skin – especially those long since healed - were once again visible to her.

"This is bonny." He traced with great gentleness the chain that held her silver dove, suspended between her breasts, observing with pleasure the goosebumps on her fair skin. "I noticed ye seem to wear it at all times."

"It was my mother's." Ophelia's voice grew deeper, as if she had scavenged words from the fabric of her own lungs. "She gave it to me before she passed."

"Ye told me about conduits and such." Hector's brows furrowed in concentration, the word foreign and bizarre on the surface of his tongue. "I wondered if that's maybe yours?"

"No." The witch grinned mischievously, as though she had caught him committing a slightly naughty act by addressing witchcraft openly. "My conduit is not something that can be taken easily from me. Not anymore." Her hand brushed the tattoo on her helix in a meaningful way, the three little dots inked in rich black.

"So, it's a sentimental heirloom?" Hector observed, both fascinated and fazed, as the elegant bird seemed to quickly acquire tinges of the purest white, before it returned to muted silver. He blinked forcefully to dispel the image.

"Not only that." The tea-maker turned on her side, her cheek leaning against the thrum of his brachial artery. "It's also a _curse-breaker_. As long as I possess it, it will protect me from most unwanted hexes."

"Is that something ye should be worried about?" He asked, attempting to remain nonchalant. While he had shared the most private and shameful side of his life, Ophelia's existence was mostly rooted in her overwhelming presence, her immediacy – to all other intents, she was a vision he could only summon whenever she desired. "Getting cursed?"

"It doesn't hurt to stay vigilant." She sing-songed, brushing his calf with her cold toes.

“There is so much ye won’t tell me.” He rolled to his belly, balancing on his forearms on top of her, until their lips were brushing. “I suspect ye know more than ye say about the case, too. You trust me with yer body – and, yet, not with yer truth?”

Ophelia didn’t rise to his challenge; instead she presented a challenge of her own, flipping them until she was straddling him, asking him to surrender his body to her once more.

Sometime during the night, Hector came awake feeling disoriented, his surroundings strange in the dimness of Ophelia's room. He realized immediately that she was awake, in such proximity that they shared the same pillow, perhaps even the same dream of ghosts who lived only at night.

He slowly turned to her and her to him. It wouldn't be a frenzy this time, but something to cherish, to never share with another soul. The profiler pulled her to him wordlessly, placing her long leg around his waist as he held the curve of her buttock, and they moved together facing each other, sharing gasps of air that had known them intimately. 

“Are ye - are ye really a witch?” Hector muttered against the column of her neck, the pace of his thrusts slowing down, until it was no more than a question of the flesh.

Ophelia's answer was to rake his back and to press his length deep inside her, faster and harder, until Hector could hear thunder under her skin, crackling like their togetherness was a parched field, ready for burning.

Her ultimate response was to cry out his name in the dark, and when her voice pierced through his chest all the lights of Edinburgh suddenly went out.

It was _5:46 am_.


	8. Coven

**VIII – Coven**

She was a witch and he was in her thrall.

Once, he had no recollection of her face as soon as she was away; now he was bewitched by the memory of her. Ophelia's face was never far away from his thoughts, and for the next three days he went straight to her house as soon as he left the station.

They made love with abandon, sometimes against the front door or on the hallway's floor, as if intimate touch was something that could escape them at any moment. Ophelia would release him of the burden of his holster and past sorrows with a knowing, fearless, hand; he would commit to the job of loving her right with his whole body.

Hector found laughter in her bed again, a wave that broke into him belly-deep, and he was forever chasing the sensation of lightness of her skin against his. She told him stories about her unusual customers, both tea-seekers and craft-believers, and he relished in experiencing something of her through those tales.

In passing, she mentioned the death of her mother a few years back and the almost inexistent relationship with her estranged father, offering no more than a vague, indistinct, watercolour of her life.

The profiler reciprocated by telling her about his younger brother, Camden Blackwood, studying abroad in Ithaca at the prestigious Cornell University. The lad was his only remaining family member and their close relationship had survived even Hector’s years of addiction and deceit; he looked forward to the time when Camden would complete his engineering education and return to Britain’s shores.

Hector and Ophelia seldom talked about other parts of their past and never about the future, happy to exist only in that precipice before and after their joining.

"Do you want to see some actual magic?" She asked late one night, as Hector watched her intently, sprawled on her unmade bed as she moved across the room. A rumpled sheet covered him modestly around the waist, hickory and cedar glistening on the sparse hairs of his naked thighs and legs.

"I thought _I just did_." He offered her a lopsided grin, filled with cockiness.

"I have more to offer than a good seeing to, Mister Blackwood _._ " She answered coquettishly, bouncing her long caramel hair. "I mean, do you want to see what I can do with my craft?"

"I thought ye didna want to show me." Hector noted haltingly, leaning forward so that he was half-sitting on the bed. "Couldn't ye have used it before, to convince me to believe ye in the first place?"

"You believe me now, I think, even if you wish you didn’t." The witch replied simply, as if that settled the matter entirely. "And that's why I’ll show you."

Not waiting for another rebuttal, Ophelia sat in front of him with crossed legs and covered her face with the palms of her hands, whispering softly.

_"Servant of time under my palms,_

_Skin of oak, blood of sap,_

_Future me_

_For him to see._ "

Hector had a peculiar sense of warm wind howling from her hands, and when she finally moved them and revealed her face, he gasped audibly.

Staring back at him, with mischief laughing in her fathomless eyes, was a very old woman who looked remarkably like Ophelia, her skin seemingly made of marble-white parchment. Crowning her striking face wasn’t a cloud of grey-white hair, but the same rich light brown he had caressed just minutes before.

“ _How_?” He asked hoarsely, moistening his lips to hide his incredulity. Fearfully, he reached out to touch her cheek - it felt warm and lively, just as her skin always felt underneath his eager fingers. “Is that - is that really ye, Ophelia?”

“Of course!” The tea-maker laughed and shook her head vigorously, as if battling away droplets of stubborn water, and when she raised her eyes again to glance victoriously at him, her face had returned to normal - beautiful, mysterious, young. "Or it will be me, someday. What you see isn't all there is to see, Hector. Creating things that aren’t there at all is harder - but this is actually quite simple.”

“I won’t lie, lass.” The profiler tilted his head, inspecting her closely, as if she was about to fade into thin, uncapturable, mist. “It’s verra hard to wrap my head around it all.” He pressed his lips, half-amused. “Ye could turn me into a munter of a toad, if I didn’t please you, aye?”

Ophelia chuckled, nudging his bare chest with her open palm, as she came closer to him until their faces were in promising proximity. She quickly waved her right hand in front of her eyes and they shone ruby-red for an instant, before they returned to their usual colour. “Luckily, you please me plenty.”

Before Hector could kiss her expectant mouth, the doorbell rang, sounding misplaced and dangerous in the quietness of the little hours of night.

“Stay here, Hector.” The witch frowned and raised quickly, grabbing a blue robe to cover her nakedness, as she padded outside the bedroom, firmly closing the door behind her.

Feeling protective and more than a little curious, the police officer rapidly put on his trousers and slid outside the room as silently as possible. Tiptoeing on the wooden floorboards to avoid a traitorous crack, he crouched to peek swiftly around the corner of the hallway.

Standing with Ophelia was the black-eyed woman he had seen at her house, in the very first night he had visited her, when he had stumbled upon what he believed to be a gathering of witches. The black-haired woman was tall and dressed completely in black, with a large sweater and skinny pants, that made her look willowy.

"There are words to be said between us, Ophelia." The newly arrived woman asserted. Although there was nothing particularly threatening about her tone, the hairs on his arms stood on end. "Are ye alone?"

“No.” The owner of _Wardwell’s Cup_ crossed her arms. “You can’t just appear in the middle of the night, Maud, and expect me to be awaiting you with a freshly brewed cuppa and biscuits laid out.”

There was a long silence in the hallway and Hector cursed himself soundlessly, realizing he had left his holster and badge on top of the table by the door, inadvertently revealing Ophelia’s nightly companion.

“ _I see_.” The woman named Maud finally said mellifluously, an oiliness about her tone that made him grit his teeth. “The wee agent is a dishy, I’ll give ye that - but I dinna take ye for a junkie-lover, Wardwell. Ye know about his past, no? It’s all over his stars.”

“Keep Agent Blackwood out of your mouth, Maud.” Ophelia answered calmly, her voice stubbornly composed. “Say what you came to say and leave me to my sleep, will you?”

“The last leaves are about to fall from the elder trees. Will ye be challenging me for the _Alba Coven_ leadership?” The visitant spat, her words jumping with barely suppressed defiance and rage.

Hector gripped his fists, impatiently awaiting for Ophelia’s answer, which followed a humourless chortle.

“I never wanted to be High Priestess, Maud Alden.” He could sense the growing tension between the two women, even shielded as he was from their gaze by the wall. “And I certainly don’t want it _now_. You’ll remain unchallenged, as far as I am concerned.”

“As long as ye live, Ophelia - the last of the Porter’s -, I am disputed. Your mere existence is a claim on its own, don’t ye see?” Envy and resentment dripped from her words directly into Hector’s ears. “They’ll have me, only because they cannot have _you_.”

Akuba suddenly bolted across the corridor, almost bumping into Hector’s legs in the process, running towards the front door while hissing madly.

“Yes, I believe she is just about to leave, my dearest.” Ophelia clearly addressed the temperamental feline, her melodic voice poised and tranquil. “You’re unsettling my familiar, Alden. Have a good night.”

“Oh, one last thing - I almost forgot.” The viperlike witch hummed, delighted. “Sarah Fulton is dead. I believe she was a friend, aye? I heard just before I came. Of course, your little mate would know it already, if he kept his tadger inside his pants.”

***

Sarah Fulton was indeed Ophelia’s friend; their parting kiss had been moistened with her tears, as soon as Hector got the call for the latest crime scene. He had pretended not to have witnessed the puzzling conversation between the two conjurers, greeting Ophelia from the bed where she had left him, before his phone buzzed ominously.

Just short of thirty, Sarah’s fair hair had turned scarlet with her own blood, as she curled like a newborn at the centre of her living room. The air was burdensome, with a scent that wasn’t yet of death, but of life sprinting away in a flash of red.

Kester Arnott and Jeremy Crowley were already inside when Hector arrived, both their faces muted and miserable at the thought of another victim to add to the harrowing tally.

“More of the same.” Detective Arnott sighed, nodding curtly to acknowledge Hector’s arrival. “If we dinna put a stop to _Edinburgh’s Demon_ soon, the Chief Inspector will demand my scalp and bollocks to decorate his fuckin’ Christmas tree.”

“The usual.” Jeremy’s gloved hands exhibited two books about wiccan practice, which he had retrieved from the victim’s shelves. “She surely fits victimology.”

“I have been thinking.” Hector’s eyes scanned the scene thoroughly. “And I’m willin’ to bet that the murderer is a woman. Ye wouldna open the door to a complete stranger - but ye definitely would to a good friend; or at the very least, a lass ye were familiar with, maybe pretending she were in trouble and seeking help.”

“That certainly changes things.” Arnott chewed on his cheek, thoughtfully. “I’ll let the lads on patrol now, so that they can keep an eye out for - well, _whatever._ ” He shook his hands, incapable of describing in any synthetic way what they should be looking for exactly, before he stepped out of the room.

“That is one strange looking candle.” Crowley said after a while, indicating with his finger a tall candle which stood on the corner, its wick untouched.

"That candle has some meaning to the witches." The black-headed criminal profiler pointed. "Ophelia Wardwell has one just like it in her bedroom."

Too late, Hector realized he had slipped and revealed much more than what he intended - he had just exposed his secret to a man trained not to miss it.

"You're sleepin' with the witch, aren't you? A person of interest in this investigation?" Jeremy shook his head, incredulous and slightly angry. "Christ, Hector! Of all the risky and inadvisable things for you to do - what were you thinking?!"

"I needed to get to her." Hector answered in a low rumble. "To gain her trust and find out what she truly knows about the murders."

He felt sick in his stomach and utterly shameful for uttering such words out loud. For making another soul believe he would use Ophelia in such a manner. But what could he say to his partner, that wouldn't complicate things even further?

_I want her. I need her. I thought I was cured of needing, of yearning, but she has proven me wrong._

"That's fairly cold, no?" The black man raised a brow. "And a tad despicable, besides mad as a bag of ferrets. Not something I'd expect from you at all, Blackwood."

"Sometimes ye need to find unorthodox ways of getting the job done, Jeremy." Hector rebuked, striving to maintain a sense of aloofness. He was known as a fairly cynical bloke - if competent and reliable - in the corridors of the _Yard_ ; it was part of the appearance he had mastered to hide the deep crack inside. "I'm no' afraid of getting my hands dirty."

“And what have you shagged out of the woman, then?” The Londoner officer glared at him, aghast. “It better be worth your entire career, if Director MacRae gets word of it.”

“I think the murders are all about a power struggle.” Hector breathed deeply. “As most things are in our line of work. Just a different kind of power, perhaps.”


	9. The Fall

**IX – _The Fall_**

_I’ll be at the shop doing inventory tonight, if you want to meet me there_ , the text message said. Hector had read it during a quick bathroom break, in the midst of a compelling study of the background of a woman he now considered the prime suspect of Edinburgh’s gruesome murders.

The somewhat thin file he had put together was covered with highlighted passages, scrambled doodles and key words scribbled in the margins, underlined several times for good measure.

“I’m heading out.” He mumbled to Jeremy, raising from his desk and putting on his heavy overcoat. The temperatures had dropped significantly that week and snow pestered the high windows, foretelling a Christmas dressed in innocent white, instead of scarlet red.

“You’re going to meet the witch.” Jeremy shook his head, the corners of his mouth wrinkled in blatant disapproval. “I thought you had a solid lead - that you’d leave the woman alone now. Aren’t you taking the biscuit, keeping this up?”

“I still need a few details, to tie everything together.” He answered coolly, his tone dispassionate. Hector was an accomplished liar, even if reluctant; his months dealing with addiction had made him so. “I’ll see ye tomorrow, Crowley.”

“Take care.” The Londoner profiler sighed. “It’s brass monkeys outside”.

As he walked towards the station’s exit, his phone buzzed inside his breast pocket. Hector half-expected to see Ophelia’s name on the screen, but instead was surprised to read Alistair MacRae’s, his director in the New Scotland Yard.

“Sir.” He greeted his superior softly, hunching his shoulders when he opened the front door and the persistent blizzard hit him, piercing his skin with fine, incessant, needles. “Is something amiss?”

“I was gettin’ a tad concerned, my boy, I’ll tell you as much. However, Crowley tells me you’re onto a possible breakthrough on the investigation. That’s good, very good.” MacRae sounded tired, probably sipping a cup of half-cold tea after a long day at his desk, dealing with failed investigations and endless bureaucratic nightmares. “No, I’m callin’ to tell you a registered letter has been delivered to ypur desk. Since it bore the _Family Court_ seal, I took the liberty of perusing it. Custody hearing is scheduled to start late January, Blackwood - your chance of finally getting your son back.”

“That’s brilliant.” He exhaled sharply, his breath coming out like a misty cloud in the dusk’s air. “I didn’t expect it to come through so soon.”

“It might be a good thing.” The older man said wisely. “If you help solving such a notorious case in the next couple of weeks, your name will be all over the headlines, lauded as a hero and an indispensable asset to the force. That’s the kind of nice marketing you desperately need, to balance out the past.”

“Aye.” The criminal profiler swallowed hard, fighting against the rising panic inside his throat. “I’ll see to it.”

***

The backroom of _Wardwell’s Cup_ was warm and welcoming, lightened by two strategically placed floor lamps on the corners, the scent of fresh and dried herbs ever-present but not completely overpowering.

“Hello there, lover.” His witch greeted him with a deep kiss, languid and purposeful, but in her soft mouth Hector found the distinct and bitter taste of his own betrayal.

_I needed to get to her. To gain her trust and find what she truly knows about the murders._

“ _Witch._ ” He smacked the top of her head with his lips, inhaling her characteristic fragrance, sweet and dark like a night-blooming flower, opening only once a year to dazzle a few chosen. “I missed ye.”

Her piercing brown eyes raised to meet his, disarming like unsheathed blades of unblemished steel, and her palm touched the centre of his chest gently as she tilted her head to study him. “Your heart is heavy, Hector.” The tea-maker licked her lips a couple of times, a display of nervousness that was a true rarity in her demeanour. “You’re burdened, aren’t you?”

“Aye.” The policeman hesitated, pressing his tongue against his palate, as if he could pierce it with ill-measured words. “I said something to my partner, about - _about ye_ , Ophelia.” He breathed deeply, willing himself not to avoid her gaze. “I told him I was using ye - taking ye to bed to unravel possible clues to solve our case.”

“Well, then. Are you, Mister Blackwood?” Ophelia’s palm lightly touched his left cheek, tracing his pronounced cheekbone with the skilful tips of her fingers, where a small scar had almost completely faded with the grace of time.

Hector snorted joylessly, leaning his forehead against hers, his shoulders slumping with a relief that almost made him stagger. “Addicts are liars by definition, Ophelia. Not only to others, to justify and hide our wicked ways - but also to ourselves, to pretend and atone. I canna tell ye how afraid and marvelled I was, once I realized I could never lie to ye; once I accepted you had the way of me, devilry or not.” His thumbs caressed the corners of her mouth. “So, _no_. I’m not deceiving ye. I’ve taken yer body, whenever ye offered it to me, because that’s the honest thing for me to do.”

"I knew that." The occultist confessed, hugging his lean waist with her delicate arms. "You wouldn't have faced the pain of touching me at first, if you felt that you had a choice."

"It has gotten better with time." Hector cocked a brow, absorbing the truth in his words as he said them. Although he still felt a distant throb when their bodies merged together, it had become more like the frailty of an old fracture, easier to break, but solid enough to endure pressure. "Any idea why?"

"Lots of ideas, actually." She smiled primly and released her grip on his body, turning to the table on the far side of the room. "Maybe you've just grown accustomed to my power. Immune. As if every time we kiss, you get a little vaccine that takes away the edge."

“A good excuse to kiss you as often as I can, if I ever heard one.” He smiled half-heartedly, still uncomfortable. "I _had to lie_ to Crowley. The truth is too fragile to stand, aye?" Hector glanced at her position, wordlessly counting teabags over a cardbox. "I'm too fragile."

"Soon enough this investigation will be over and things will get easier for you." She looked at him over her shoulder, the graceful curve of her chin taking his breath away. "You texted me that you had a new thesis about the murderer, hm?"

"I think I'm close enough." Hector sat on one of her plush armchairs, feeling incredibly tired. "But I wish I had more than a gut feeling to hold on to."

Ophelia halted, her long fingers gripping a bundle of dried sage, the look on her face one of abstraction and deep thinking. "Maybe I could help you - it's a chance, to be sure, but you might see something useful."

"What do you mean, lass?" He frowned, confused.

The modern witch gave him a long, piercing, stare and then padded towards the black tea set, neatly placed on a shelf. Hector recalled his first impressions about the item, the mixture of apprehension, dread and thrill at the thought of drinking something brewed inside it.

"This is called _The Fall_." Ophelia respectfully held the tray containing the onyx teapot and cup, carrying it to her desk, immediately in front of Hector. "It's a bit of a divination device. If you drink from it, you might see moments in time and events, past and future, although not always in a straightforward manner, I'm sorry to say." The corner of her mouth curved on an amused grin. "If only _crystal balls_ were a real thing."

"Ye're telling me, if I drink from it, I'll have some kind of hallucination, that will show me what I want to know?" Hector glared at the innocent-looking black lid, horrified and fascinated, and shuddered.

Ophelia shrugged, her shoulders moving up and down underneath her deep indigo woollen sweater. "There are no guarantees, but that's the general idea. What is time, if not ripples in the water, anyway?"

The Yard profiler inspected the object for a long moment as if it might attack him on a whim, then breathed deeply. "Alright. I'll do it." He looked at her, uncertain. "Should I lay down for this, or…?"

"You're fine. It won't make you take off like a rocket." She patted his hand reassuringly, grabbing the bubbling electrical pot, in order to fill the dark teapot with steaming water.

"Well, peppermint and mugwort for sure. Maybe a pinch of wormwood?" Ophelia babbled cheerfully to herself, as she ground herbs in a mortar and threw them inside. "It's always useful for scrying."

Before Hector could build the courage to ask her about the authenticity of astral projections, the witch solemnly served him a full teacup and shoved it into his open hand.

" _Slàinte_." He smiled at her, before he gulped down all the contents in one single motion.

The first feeling he had was of intense warmth, that roared from his wame into the surface of his skin. Next, of darkness gathering around him, quickly engulfing Ophelia and taking her away from him.

Then, there was the fall.

It felt like walking imprudently into a precipice, only to realize he was falling towards the sky, instead of the ground underneath. The force of it threatened to tear at the seams of his soul, and he desperately held on, bracing himself for impact.

Instead, he was suddenly laying down, tranquil, surrounded by soft whiteness. Hector saw a white dove slowly flying to meet him, landing on his chest and transforming into a white flower, with roots around his beating heart.

When he turned his head to the side, the witch he knew was called Maud Alden walked in front of a large following of women, a crown made of bones on top of her flowing black hair. The tips of his fingers felt sticky, and he glanced at his left hand only to see a puddle of crimson blood, a ring laying on its centre with a braid of blonde hair nestling around it.

Hector fought to sit up and watched as a man that looked very much like him, except for the lighter hair crowning his head, hugged an old faceless woman and called her " _Mum"_. His eyes, brimming with tears, cast down to find a needle stuck on the curve of his arm, his veins dark and angry, like a tattoo of poison taking over his skin.

"It's alright." Ophelia's voice soothed him, close to his ear. "It's over."

***

The house Hector visited on the next afternoon was the exact opposite of Ophelia Wardwell’s residency. The old building itself seemed like the cadaver of a house, with the faint whiff of mould and decaying things, that someone had tried to conceal with cheap air freshner.

When he climbed the front steps of the 31st, the door opened to reveal a blonde woman, who seemed strangely familiar. When her uncanny cobalt blue eyes fixed on him, Hector recognized her as another one of the witches gathered at Ophelia’s house, the one who had made a crude remark about this presence. More recently, he had seen her face, younger and less defiant, on a portrait in his investigation file.

“ _Weil, weil, weil_.” She chirped happily, stopping before him with a delighted expression. “If it isna Wardwell’s plaything, the wee cockney detective.”

“I’m no’ an englishman, as ye ken, Mrs. Foster.” He deliberately let her know that her identity wasn’t a mystery to him, observing as her eyes grew darker. “Fancy seein’ ye here. I’m just about to ask Miss Alden for a chat about an ongoing case, if she’s willing. Care to join?”

“I’m afraid unless there’s a subpoena hidden somewhere in there,” She lecherously glanced at the front of his trousers, smirking openly. “I’m gonna pass the chance. I already have plans for the eve, aye?” The golden-haired witch blew him a mocking kiss and strode past him, her black skirt billowing behind her.

Smiling almost imperceptibly, Hector climbed the final steps and pressed the doorbell.

“Miss Alden?” He nodded in acknowledgement, when the woman finally answered the door. “I think it’s time for us to talk.”


	10. Edinburgh’s Demon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, the story becomes completely new. Thank you for reading thus far. <3

**X – Edinburgh’s Demon**

"How can I help ye, Agent Blackwood?" Maud asked with a hint of sarcasm. The interior of her house was cluttered, as if she inhabited an antique shop, and bizarre-looking items lurked from several surfaces.

"Well," Hector brushed his upper lip with his knuckle and took out his small notebook from his pocket. "Ye can start by telling me about the relationship between Ophelia Wardwell and the _Alba Coven_."

She snorted and her coal-black eyes brimmed with unamused coldness. "There is no relationship, really. Wardwell takes pride in being a solo practitioner, as I'm sure she has told ye - probably right after you fucked her, hm?"

"But it wasna meant to be that way, was it?" Hector cocked a dark brow, studying her intently. He noticed the way her gaze wondered to the left, the soft flex of her fingers. "I've been reading about Isla Wardwell, ye ken. A truly fascinating woman. Although, I'd guess that she went by her family name - Porter - in her early days?"

The onyx-haired witch threw him a resentful, bitter, look. "Yes, yes, our late High Priestess was perfectly magnetic."

"I'm fairly new to this world, Miss Alden, but I was under the impression such titles were mostly inherited. Passed on through the matriarchal line, from mothers to daughters." He paused purposefully, watching her inconscient signs of discomfort and rage, letting her stew a little in her uncertainty and anger.

_Angry people spill themselves easily._

Maud clearly hadn't mastered her demeanour in the way Ophelia had - if it was for a lack of power or a simple personality trait, he wasn't entirely sure. "So, how come Ophelia isn't the current High Priestess?"

The corner of her lip twitched on a rueful smirk. "Many things spread by mainstream culture about witches are fabricated lies, Agent Blackwood. However, there is the occasional truth to be found - like the fact that witches tend to be somewhat promiscuous." Her grin deepened in an ugly way, taking away from her beautiful features. Her eyes ran down his body lecherously, stopping just below his waist. "Sex is just another form of power to be deployed. There is plenty one can harness from orgasms and pillow talk - secrets, insecurities, energy, leverage. We see it for what it is."

Hector nodded almost imperceptibly and tilted his head. "Your point bein'…?"

"Wardwell isn't like most of us." She squinted, as if she was trying to see another dimension of him in the fading light of her living room. "Not in that sense and not in many others. She hasn't taken a man into her bed in quite a while. And she didn't want to abide by some of the clans' commandments." Maud shrugged dispassionately. "She relinquished her birthright upon Isla's passing and chose to leave the coven altogether."

"But some still wanted to follow her, aye?" Hector leaned further against the couch, looking relaxed and even pliable. Luring her further in. "Julia, Lydia, Esther, Olga, Anna, Sarah - just to name a few?"

The practitioner glared at him with pure venom and hostility in her midnight eyes. "Most of them weren't even _proper_ witches. Playing with the craft, like curious weans with a firefly trapped inside a glass." Her mouth pressed in a fine line of blatant displeasure. "A merry band of misfits and deluded wenches, thinking Wardwell could lead them onto something better."

" _A new coven_." Hector said slowly, crossing his legs in a casual manner, as if he was about to order some whisky at a gentlemen’s club. "A division amongst _yer_ _ranks_."

"It was Julia's idea." She cackled and leaned over fervently, their knees almost bumping together. "She wanted to gather her troops before they all took a pledge to wear a new signet ring and asked Wardwell to lead them." Their eyes met full on and Hector inspected the thirst, contempt and borderline lunacy inside her orbs. "I'm sure the wee bitches thought they were discrete and stealth."

" _They had to be stopped_." Hector whispered softly. "But I ken ye didna do it yerself." He abandoned any pretence at nonchalance, fully assuming the mantle of authority and directness. "Police Scotland has placed Sarah's time of death about half an hour before ye appeared at Ophelia's door. A neighbour saw her entering her house while he was walking the dog. I've timed the distance through all possible paths - best case scenario, it would have taken ye one hour to make the journey between the murder scene and Ophelia's house."

Maud grew still, the raging winds inside her stormy eyes almost making him shiver - but he held her gaze steadily.

"I can arrest ye on charges of aiding a serial killer." He mussed up his hair calmly, as if he was seriously contemplating the possibility of depositing her in a cold dungeon somewhere. "Unless ye can manage to turn into a ladybug, I canna see ye leaving _Her Majesty's Prison Edinburgh_ any time soon, craft or not." He enjoyed the effect of his words on her irritated, and slightly fearful, face. "Or ye can tell me what I need to know."

"And what would that be?" She asked haltingly and Hector felt the temperature dropping steadily in the room, as her emotions became more convoluted.

"Who would go to such lengths to guarantee the Coven stayed intact?" The criminal profiler entwined his fingers together against his chest in a contemplative gesture. "And why?"

"Ye're asking me to betray everything I believe in, Mister Blackwood." She said in a low voice, her long hand gripping the upholstery like a warped claw. "To give you a name and the power that comes with it." In spite of the lengthy pause that followed, Hector already knew she would cave in by the tension in her body. "I believe someone would benefit greatly from the murders."

"Oh, aye?" He encouraged her, keeping an interested albeit neutral enough face, to hide his absolute eagerness.

"Someone who was _witch-in-waiting_ and would ascend if I died - or disappeared from the field -, without leaving a proper legacy. They would want to make sure all power remains in the right place for grabbing." She licked her chapped lips. "Besides, the power of the killing ritual wouldna come amiss. Worst case scenario, authorities might suspect me and remove that last barrier for them. It's a win-win gamble."

Hector saw a flash of yellow in his own hand, the indistinct memory of a ring with blonde hair around it. He had attributed it to his own engagement, forever lost with Amelia’s murder - but what if it was related to Edinburgh's current events?"

"Ye're talking about Sybil Foster." He raised from his chair, dropping the notebook at his feet. "Aren't ye?"

Maud's eyes averted his, as she nodded one final time. "I think she has gone to Ophelia's house to end it."

***

"Kester," Hector roared to his phone, connected to the _Bluetooth_ system of his car. "Ye need to call in all available units to _Nightingale Way_. Suspect is headed there; Ophelia Wardwell if the probable target. Meet me there, _now_."

The tires of his car skidded on the icy road, but he didn't slow down his mad race. All he could see was the dove flying to meet him, the way his chest felt whole and strengthened by her presence, how he didn't crave anything else but her.

It was the night before Christmas Eve and the streets were eerily calm, with only a few pedestrians rushing for last-minute shopping or to reach their homes before the next blizzard.

“Damn ye, _Ophelia_. _Damn ye.”_ He hissed desperately, working the gear box of his car like a maniac. “Why didn’t ye tell me how much danger ye were on?”

He didn’t even bother finding a parking spot upon reaching his destination; Hector simply halted his vehicle and pushed himself out of the car at full speed, running towards the building’s door. Sirens were already echoing in the vicinity, coming ever closer, but the thought of waiting for reinforcements was agonizing.

The police officer climbed the stairs in a frenzy, jumping three steps at a time, and almost froze when he reached Ophelia’s door and discovered it unlocked.

In a mechanical and mindless gesture, embedded inside through years of training, his left hand found the holster against his ribs and he pulled out his service revolver, before silently stepping inside.

The hallway was empty, but he could hear faint thumping sounds, and a persistent rasping noise, in the direction of Ophelia’s bedroom. Hector slid quickly, holding the gun in front of him.

When he reached the threshold and peeked through the door’s crack, he could see Ophelia’s silhouette sprawled on the floor, with another figure straddling her and seemingly trying to choke her with bare hands. A long hunting knife laid threateningly on the corner, more than likely lost in the heat of the brawl between the two women, and Ophelia fought _like hell_ – clawing madly, hissing and hitting the fair witch’s ribs with her fists. Blood was dripping profusely from the tea-maker’s ear, and Hector realized Sybil had managed to cut into her tattoo, successfully stripping her of her conduit, and thus rendering her helpless.

“Let go of my witch, Mrs. Foster,” Hector growled ferociously, pointing his gun at her head with a firm hand, as he finally entered the room. “Or ye’ll see me work some magic of my own.”

***

The case was closed. Sybil Foster, _Edinburgh’s Demon_ , awaited a swift trial in a solitary cell, where she was under constant suicide watch.

He was destined to return to London, to his semblance of a life there and his _Yard_ duties. Director MacRae was very pleased with his work and planned to use him for other complex and challenging cases. Apparently, his star was on the rise again.

_But there was Ophelia Wardwell to consider._ _A relationship with her._

They could try to make it work, somehow - the flight between the two cities was more than manageable, so weekends and time off together were a definite possibility.

But he also had to prepare for Finlay’s custody hearing, looming ominously just a few weeks ahead. For the most important battle of his life, one he had already lost once.

As Hector ate his solitary breakfast-made-dinner of scrambled eggs and toast, accompanied by a selection of the day’s newspapers, his appetite seemed to vanish gradually. The headlines were flattering enough, mentioning him recurrently in association to Foster’s arrest, but there was _more_.

There was the business of witchcraft, _fully exposed_ by some wagging tongue inside the force, looking for a few extra quid _._ And Ophelia Wardwell front and centre, revealed as a notorious self-proclaimed witch.

The murders had already captured enough attention through their gruesomeness and mysterious nature; the link to the underworld was the kind of _pièce de résistance_ that made journalists rub their hands together with glee.

“ _Ophelia Wardwell, owner of the successful self-made tea company, Wardwell’s Cup, is the only known victim to survive an Edinburgh’s Demon attack. But the Scottish Sun knows that it might not have been a fortuitous event. Witnesses told our special correspondent, Macy Evans, how she jinxed competition out of business and seduced random men by standing naked at her window (page 2, 3 and 4).”_

_“Fucking Christ_.” Hector cursed, throwing the offending newspaper to the floor. But all tabloids told similar stories - the more serious and sombre, did lengthy pieces about the history of _Wiccan_ practice in Scotland, while the sensationalists dug up people who swore they had seen her turning into a bat at lunchtime or drinking fresh blood in some underground club.

He hated himself for it, but nevertheless inspected every article, looking for any clues that an intimate relationship between them had become common knowledge. Luckily, that aspect seemed to remain a well-kept secret for the time being.

Hector wasn’t embarrassed of their connection; it was the purest and most sincere feeling he had harboured in his heart for years – a heart made of tethers bridged by dark binds. _She fascinated him, elated him, moved him_. His skin felt transparent under her piercing gaze, but somehow there was safety in that exposure. Her body made loving someone again easy, uncomplicated, natural. Her magical powers were strangely the less remarkable thing about her.

But if he stayed with her – if Hector claimed her _openly, irrevocably_ – the world would know _he was_ _dating a witch_. The scandal that would follow, the gossip and mediatic circus, would undoubtedly smoother any chance of getting Finlay back.

His phone buzzed on top of the table and he picked it up.

“Heya.” Jeremy greeted him, sounding cheery. “Fancy coming to Arnott’s place, mate? He invited us for some Christmas whiskey and hot mince pies. He claims Linda bakes them like a true legend.”

“No, thanks.” Hector smiled. “I’m staying in. I’m properly knackered after everything.”

A long pause on the line, as if his Yard’s partner was contemplating saying something difficult. “She’s coming to meet you, isn’t she?” Jeremy hawked. “ _The witch_. Are you really dead from the neck up, man?”

“More mincemeat for you, Crowley.” Hector answered patiently. “The investigation is over, and this is my private time we’re talking about, so kindly piss off.”

“You actually _like her.”_ The Londoner realized, whistling softly on the other side of the line. “Don’t you, you twit? This is certainly unexpected.” His voice lowered, to no more than a whisper of caution. “I think it might actually be even _more dangerous_ that you’re truly in love with her. Even if it makes you less of a maggot.”

Hector pursed his lips, until he felt the first tingles of numbness. “Merry Christmas, Jeremy. See you tomorrow.”

Even though he was expecting her to come by, the knock on the front door made him jump. He hesitated for a while, breathing deeply, steadying his tormented thoughts. The fierce ache was back, but it seemed to come from a place inside, where invisible fingers scratched and twisted, already trying to break them apart. 

Hector slowly opened the door, revealing the woman he cherished, clad in a simple burgundy dress, grey coat and soft boots. The bandage in her ear was well hidden by the cascade of her hair and her full lips curled on a broad smile, that quickly dwindled when their eyes met.

They stood completely still and silent for a while. Hector’s eyes were tormented and pleading, even as he tried to reciprocate her smile. Ophelia’s face softened, went almost boneless, as if her very structure was slowly crumbling.

“ _I know_. It’s alright, Hector.” Ophelia finally said with a gentleness that didn’t belong in this land - a world that had been nothing but darkness for quite some time, but where he had found a glimmer surrounding her. Her palm was on his cheek, warm and real, and he knew it would become a perfect ghost, haunting him endlessly. “ _I understand_.”

“I - I’m so sorry, Ophelia.” He uttered huskily, fighting the knot in his throat that was on the verge of choking him completely. She smiled back, generous and sad, and he wanted nothing more but to crush her mouth with his; to plunge into her, again and again, until they became _inseparable_ _, until_ _it wasn’t his choice to make anymore_ _._

“You should take this.” The witch touched her necklace, the ever-present dove, that was now matted and joyless, like a limbless creature curling on the floor. Her delicate fingers worked the clasp and she removed it from her neck, offering it to him.

“I canna take it.” He shook his head, adamant. “Ye told me it would ward ye against curses and such.”

She paused, glancing at his eyes, as if she was deciding the merits of sharing an unspeakable secret. “It won’t work for me now.” The tea-maker whispered, eventually. “I’m not whole anymore.” Her voice lowered even further, as if to spare him from the realness of it. “I exist in two places now.”

“I wish things could be different.” He gulped down, trembling slightly with barely supressed emotion. “I wish I –“

“ _Me too._ ” Ophelia nodded and took his left hand – the hand of his gun, of his writing, of his heart - in hers. She planted a lingering kiss on his palm and then covered it with the dove pendant. “For what is worth, I suspected you’d break my heart from the moment I read your teacup – _and I still chose you, just as you chose me_ _.”_ She balanced on her tiptoes and chastely kissed his forehead, then his lips, before she turned to walk away. “ _Farewell, Mister Blackwood_.”

***

_It was Christmas Eve. The night was silent and full of promises, as if the pavement bore a new beating heart, renewed in its rhythm. All over Edinburgh people sang a cacophony of Yuletide carols, traded half-considerate gifts and argued about ancient family rivalries._

_A witch walked alone on the sidewalk, her shoulders hunched against cold and grief, and when the first tear streamed down her cheek, all starlings in Edinburgh took flight at once._

_It would be a long time before they returned._


	11. Days of Thaw

**Part II**

**XI – Days of Thaw**

Hector Blackwood was a fan of writing reports – _usually_. There was something deeply satisfying in sharing the process of a discovery, the machinations of his mind that made a capture possible. He found that he always seemed to learn something new by puzzling everything together once more, while already knowing the outcome; perhaps a way to reach the same conclusions sooner on the next similar case, or a hidden clue that missed his piercing gaze on the first opportunity. It was bureaucratic work that other profilers loathed, but that made his driven heart sing.

But that particular report was a disheartening, nauseating, affair. Everything about the case had been so, from the first traumatized rape victim up to the seventh assaulted woman, that had finally led the _Yard_ agents to the identity of London’s latest serial rapist.

While murder investigations were jarring, rape cases were always deeply personal. The victims had to recount the most intimate of offenses to others, and to find a way to live with a loss of self. The weight of their sleepless nights, as well as his own during such investigations, made the burden painfully heavy.

On top of that, Hector’s concentration evaded him mercilessly on that Tuesday morning; his thoughts kept straying to the worrisome phone call he had received the day before.

When he was contemplating banging his head against the keyboard, to try and sieve through his thoughts in order to be truly functional, a puffing Jeremy Crowley rushed inside their shared office.

“Sorry for being late mate, but the Tube was mental. It seems like the entirety of London has completely lost the plot.” Jeremy shook his head, throwing his leather satchel on top of the office chair like it had personally offended him. “Everyone was going on and on about Kiki Morris’ suicide. Some folks were actually crying.” He looked at Hector with blatant incredulity, as he took off his neat forest green scarf. “Like, _real tears_.”

“Well, she was Britain’s sweetheart, wasn’t she?” Hector shrugged, stretching his arms behind his back. “It’s the death of a dream. And a brutal, unexpected, one at that.”

Albeit young – just shy of thirty –, Kiki Morris had been gracing telly screens since her early years, as a premature and successful child actress. Later, she had grown to become a movie star, stealing the limelight from acclaimed American actresses and starring in at least two major movies a year. The tabloids were obsessed with Kiki’s style, romantic life and seemingly unending vibrancy and _joie de vivre_. No one would expect her to be found inside her bathtub, cold and lifeless, with an empty packet of pills next to the conditioner bottle.

“Well, I certainly don’t envy the detective dealing with the case.” Jeremy waved his hand in circles. “People will demand a more glamorous explanation for her death, and will tear apart anyone who says otherwise.”

“Kiki had it all, or so people will assume, and she still killed herself.” Hector mussed up his dark, slightly wavy, hair. “That leaves little hope for the rest of us.” The cursor on the screen blinked gloomily where it had been left mid-sentence. “That’s why people were cryin’ – for the illusion of hope entirely gone.”

“Aren’t you all perky this morning?” Crowley inspected him closely, a half-amused smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “Did someone put salt instead of sugar in your coffee, Blackwood?”

Hector smiled and looked through the nearby window, where a light morning drizzle was already making an appearance. “Finlay got himself into a fight at school.” He clenched his teeth. “ _Again_.”

“That’s balls-up.” The Londoner profiler said, looking simultaneously worried and sympathetic. “What was it about?”

“What is it ever about?” Hector pursed his lips, hunching his shoulders underneath his grey shirt. “He doesna know how to reign his anger in. He is nine and pissed off. And I dinna seem to help much, since I’m the one he’s most angry at.”

After a few months of quiet courtroom battles, the Scottish criminal profiler had finally regained shared custody of his son with his late fiancé’s parents. His lawyer had proclaimed it a smashing victory and predicted the arrangement to be short-lived, solely with the intent of soften the blow of transferring full custody back to him at once, both for Finlay and for his previous guardians. The estimate had proven itself a self-fulfilling prophecy - one year elapsed, and his flat had become Finlay’s permanent residency.

Then another war, much trickier and scarier, had begun. Blackwood needed to learn how to be a parent again, not allowing his past mistakes to render him useless; to try to regain his son’s affections, while being someone he still respected as a parental figure.

He didn’t feel particularly successful, especially since Finlay had started to row with his classmates about twice a month. The lad had already been suspended for three days in October and he might get himself expelled before Christmas, an outcome that probably only had been avoided so far because of Hector’s prestige as a _Yard_ distinguished member.

“He needs time.” Jeremy offered, patting his shoulder amiably. It was something Hector told himself repeatedly, but that small voice was growing fainter and wearier. “And maybe some extra stability, like a motherly figure.” He studied his Yard partner with a disarming gaze. “How are things with Detective Murphy?” Crowley rolled his light brown eyes, indicating his own recurrent inability to use her given name. “Erm, _Charlotte_?”

“Good.” Hector replied coolly. “She has been busy, as have I, but we’re making it work for us.”

“It’s been what – six months?” The profiler brushed his full bottom lip thoughtfully. “Since you’ve started dating the burd?”

“Possibly.” Hector pretended to study the last lines of the report on his screen. His friend was swiftly approaching murky territory. “I dinna keep a fuckin’ relationship calendar like a blushing teenager, Crowley. That you’d know the anniversary of my relationship shows me ye haven’t been socializing enough outside these headquarters.”

“Well, if you aren’t a recalcitrant youngster, what are you waiting to take it to the next level, Blackwood?” His smile broadened and he wiggled his dark brows somewhat comically, ignoring the jab. “You should ask her to move in with you.”

Hector bit the corner of his bottom lip, chewing discretely. “We aren’t _there_ yet. Maybe at some point down the road.”

“ _You’re holding back_.” The Londoner accused him, scraping the olive skin of his jaw, like a wise man fondling his majestic beard. “I mean, Charlotte Murphy isn’t some two o’clock beauty queen. Every officer in _Homicide_ has tried to date her or ride her, at least, to no avail. _She chose you_. So, this is all about the witch, isn’t it?” He crossed his arms, defying Hector to try and lie to him. “You’re still thoroughly and hopelessly hung up on Ophelia Wardwell.”

The name was like a hidden knife twisting between his ribs, denting bone with its edge, making dark blood run faster away from him. She was always there, living somewhere in his flesh, until her name was spoken aloud, and his feelings turned her to a weapon.

Charlotte was a good woman, deserving of a proper man. And he had wanted to be that chap; still wanted, most of the time. A homicide detective in the _New Scotland Yard_ , she had the patience and persistence intrinsic to the job, and had waited for months before he agreed to go for a pint with her at the nearest pub. Their liaison was comfortable and warm like the first days of thaw, but more often than not he still came awake at 5:46 am, with the ghost of a thunderstorm underneath a woman’s skin.

Hector bristled, clenching his closed fist next to the mousepad. “Let it go, Jeremy Crowley. Don’t you have some actual profiling to do today?”

Jeremy raised his open hands in a display of surrender. “Fine, fine. I’m just saying it has been _two bloody years_ , Hector. For all you know, the she-devil could be married by now and have at least one little ankle-biter of her own.” He pointed a determined index finger in Hector’s general direction. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to look out for you, mate. You deserve some happiness in your life that doesn’t revolve around entrails and sociopaths.”

Blackwood winced. “Director MacRae wanted a chat about the _Bristol Strangler_. If ye’re quite done dissecting my life, you better go and explain him that cock up.”

The olive-skinned agent quirked a brow, sighed and turned on his heels, heading for the door. Hector distinctly heard him singing _Highway to Hell_ in his best bass voice along the hallway.

The Scottish profiler glared at the screen, his eyes flying over the details of his impressions from the offender’s _Instagram_ page without truly noticing them, and before he could stop himself a new window had been opened on his browser and his fingers were typing with a mind of their own on the search engine.

His heart was beating madly, a thump that was neither drum nor galop, but soundless screams of a name; the wave of overwhelming fear and desire making his thumb hover hesitantly over the _“enter_ ” button, without touching it.

The screen seemed to be afire with the words “ _Ophelia Wardwell Edinburgh_ ”.


	12. Memorabilia

**XII – _Memorabilia_**

When Hector opened the door to his flat, Finlay was innocently poised on the sofa with his face hidden behind a Maths book. The telly loomed dark and silent in the corner; the remote was set weirdly askew on the coffee table. He was running slightly late after a meeting with Director MacRae, hence Mrs. Rutherford, who looked after Finlay when he arrived home from school, had already left for the day.

“Hey.” He greeted his son, placing the keys on the small table by the door and quirking a brow in his direction. “So strange, I could have sworn I heard the noise of the telly as I was coming out of the lift. Which would be completely impossible, since you’re grounded and forbidden to even glance at it.”

“Until when?” The boy peeked from behind the book, looking simultaneously bored and confrontational. His fair left cheekbone sported a purple bruise, swollen and vibrant like a splotch of garish paint on a pristine wall. 

“At least until puberty, I reckon.” Hector crossed his arms, studying him intently. “When hopefully the thought of chasing girls will distract you from your weekly rows at school.”

“I doubt it.” Finlay stubbornly fixed his eyes on the sums in front of him, seemingly undisturbed. “London is full of _plonkers_ , so if you want me to stop fighting maybe I should go back to Canterbury. I was so well-mannered there – board of honour and everything.”

“Tosh. And if that’s your motivation for behaving like a dafty, my wee brammer, you’ll soon discover it’s not so easy to push me away.” He ignored the dry, “ _fooled me_ ” look from his soon – the years of separation, perceived as abandonment by the lad, still weighed heavily between them. “This is _our life_ now and you might want to consider doing the best you can with it. As I’ve learned the hardest way, Fin, it doesn’t come with a do-over option.”

“Okay, Blackwood.” The moniker used by the boy still stung, as he used it to further distance himself from his sire; Finlay had taken the habit of introducing himself as _Finlay Harris_ , using Amelia’s maiden name as his sole surname, as if he was completely absent of a living father.

“Charlotte is coming over tonight for dinner, if that’s okay with you.” Hector forced himself to move past his son’s defiance. “I’ll make mash and bangers. Will you feed _Bruja_ , while I start prepping?”

They had adopted the cat about a week after Finlay’s definitive move to London, as Hector had hoped a pet would make the transition easier. Although males were largely predominant amongst orange tabbies, _Bruja_ was a gentle green-eyed female, sweet-tempered and lean like a wildcat. Even though she loved Finlay dearly (and he quite fancied the feline, in spite of pretending he didn’t really care much), the cat had taken to sleeping with Hector almost every night, and he had named her himself on a whim. One he forced himself not to dwell on too much.

“ _Whatever_.” Finlay closed his book and got up from the couch, preparing to retreat to his bedroom as soon as he was done feeding their tabby. “You can do as you fancy, Blackwood. It’s your house, after all.”

“It’s _our_ home.” The Yard profiler corrected his son, pursing his lips. Regret and longing made a pincushion of his chest, piercing in small but painful jabs, little holes from sorrows to pour away and flood his entire being.

“No,” Finlay shrugged, petting _Bruja_ on the head, as she meowed. “ _It’s really not_.”

***

“How’s the Kiki Morris’ investigation going?” Hector asked Charlotte, as they sat together after dinner and drank a mug of the Yorkshire tea she preferred.

Finlay had wolfed down his meal, offering no more than a couple of clipped answers and nods, before disappearing into his room with the excuse of a mandatory read for English.

“Oh, God.” The homicide detective moaned, covering her electric-blue eyes with her palms. “It’s a bloody nightmare, isn’t it? Relentless hounding from the media, pressure from political ties, TMZ stalking us to _Pret a Manger_ for an egg salad and Director MacRae on our asses.” She shook her head empathically. “The autopsy report should be released tomorrow – the day after, the latest. Hopefully, it will confirm the suicide thesis and we can all put it to rest.”

“Aye.” Hector said absentmindedly. His green eyes scanned her beautiful face, trying to summon the kind of feeling able to rip a man apart. She had smooth skin with a smattering of small freckles covering her nose and elegant cheeks. Her eyebrows curved in swooping arches, that looked perpetually amused or slightly seductive, and her diamond blonde straight hair shone in the dim light. Not some “ _two o’clock beauty queen_ ”, Crowley had deemed quite accurately; she was indeed a stoater, as well as a hardworking woman and loyal partner. If only he could compel himself to be all that she deserved him to be, passionate and unhaunted by memories of others he had loved and lost himself to.

Charlotte kissed him softly on the lips, pressing his mouth with more urgency before breaking contact. Her hand tenderly caressed his neck and the chain he constantly wore got caught between her fingers.

“I’ve always thought this a rather strange choice for you.” She gave him a coy smile and a questioning look under her caramel lashes, as her fingernail grazed the cold dove pendant hidden behind his shirt. “It seems – _hm_ – a bit gentle and feminine for your taste, Hector. A family heirloom, perhaps?”

“It was a gift.” Blackwood revealed, in a tone that indicated he wasn’t up for this line of questioning. Sometimes he would stare at the silver dove, waiting for a hint of its former power or for a flapping of its wings, but it stayed muted. _Lifeless_. “I just got used to wearing it over time.” He tried to snort in roguish amusement. “We _Yard_ lads are just a bunch of superstitious wankers, huh?”

“Maybe I’ll get you something more appropriate for your next birthday.” The detective carefully bumped the pendant for one last time with her index finger, before lazily snuggling to his side, kissing the curve of his neck possessively. “It freaks me out a little, that’s all. Even more when we’re in bed.”

Hector caressed the soft hair at her nape, as he drank the last rich sip of his tea. He was only glad she couldn’t read the moist, yellowly, tealeaves glued to the bottom of his cup; see the shadows of his past, divine the way of his wayward heart.

***

Hector was reading a report sent to the _Yard_ headquarters by the _Whitby Police_ about two murders with strange similarities over the last year, that could point to a possible serial killer in the making, when Jeremy stormed inside the office looking agitated and eager. He marched to Hector’s desk and dropped himself on the adjacent chair.

“Have you ever had a Matcha Chai Latte?” Jeremy asked, intensity making the lines of his good-humoured face seem bolder. “You know, one of those posh beverages you buy at _Starbucks_ or _Costa_ to try and make life more exciting and bearable before 8 am?”

“Can’t say that I have.” Hector quirked a dark brow, marking the page on the report with his thumb, in order not to lose his place on the text, as he raised his eyes. “Should I?”

“Yea. That’s just it isn’t it?” Crowley nodded vehemently, as if Hector had just confirmed his suspicions that Margaret Tatcher was a die-hard conservative back in the day. “There’s nothing wrong with moving on from Earl Grey tea. It might be dark and a fuckin’ bergamot wonder, and everything you’ve ever wanted at the end of a hard day that doesn’t come from a distillery,” A sharp inhale of hair through his nose, that barely allowed for his Yard partner to interrupt, “But maybe the answer is to change and accept what matcha can offer you. It’s delicious and probably good for your health.”

“Mate, I say this with a lot of care and not a hell lot of patience,” Hector kneaded his forehead between his eyebrows. “But what _the fuck are you talking about_? Have you been drinking on the job?”

Jeremy rubbed the back of his head, looking slightly embarrassed. “Okay, okay.” He hawked, throwing him a cautious look with his light brown eyes. “I went to Mum’s for brunch on Sunday. I want to emphasize right now that I wasn’t thinking straight – it was probably something like muffin-and-scone-induced-delirium –, but I grabbed her _Town and Country_ mag to take to the loo.” He huffed, shaking his head. “That subscription is probably the only remaining evidence that she was ever indeed a genteel Mayfair Crowley.” He recovered the self-incriminatory magazine from his briefcase, barely touching it with the tips of thumbs and forefingers. “Anyway, I found something. And I think you should know.”

Crowley placed the magazine directly in front of Hector, with the reverence and carefulness of an agent dealing with an explosive device.

_“This tea is piping hot, London. Grab your clotted cream and lemon curd, gird your finger sandwiches, and hold on to your best strawberry shortcake; T &C has the pleasure of announcing that Wardwell’s Cup is coming to The Smoke. If you’re a proper tea afficionado, you already know that this Edinburgh based company, owned and managed by founder Ophelia Wardwell, has been consistently delivering some of the best tea in Scotland. Wardwell’s impressive menu offers versions of all the classic favourites, like English Breakfast and Oolong, but also some new, surprising and delicious brews. And you’ll be able to find it all, as well as some opening exclusives and a swanky adjacent tearoom, in the new Camden emporium. _

_“Our branching out to London was kept hush-hush, because I wanted to make sure the timing was right and that everything fell into place neatly,” Ophelia Wardwell revealed, as we sat to talk in her atmospheric Edinburgh domain. “I’m excited to share my vision with a broader public, especially one as knowledgeable and sophisticated as London’s. I’m thrilled and slightly green around the edges.”_

_Despite her humble words, the herbalist and entrepreneur, stunning in a moss-green dress, does not seem fazed at all. Ophelia, once rumoured fiancé of entertainment tycoon Alexander Sharp, made the headlines two years ago because of alleged ties to witchcraft, around the time Edinburgh’s Demon was arrested. I asked her if the allegations had any impact on her business success and if clients should be weary._

_“There’s my work and then my personal life.” Wardwell smiled, appearing completely tranquil and indifferent to the gossip. “Ultimately, I don’t think people care if their postman is into cross dressing with his wife or if their hairdresser collects porcelain dolls in the basement. What they want is a good product and that I can guarantee.” And that’s the tea, we believe. Catch Wardwell’s Cup inauguration party on Saturday, the 21 st.”_

“ _She’s coming_.” Hector whispered numbly, raising his eyes to gawk at Jeremy. “She will be here next weekend.”


	13. Dark Beats

**XIII – _Dark Beats_**

Saturday brought clouds coloured like ash, the promise of roaring wind not too far. The sombre weather gave Hector a massive migraine, the likes he hadn’t experienced since his first days dallying with sobriety. In truth, he hadn’t slept much the past few days; nights were a tortured time of errant thoughts, touching his mind with possibility only to evade before he could fully grasp them.

He had been avoiding Charlotte, pretending he was desperately busy with a new case and a pressing cold. No foul play had been committed between them, and yet he felt queasy with the simple dishonesty of his desire to see Ophelia again.

_It wasn’t right._

It had been his decision to break their bond two years before; for _greater good_ – a chance to raise his son, to get back a substantial part of himself, of his integrity -, but his doing, nonetheless. Hector had replayed that moment at the door of his temporary flat in Edinburgh hundreds of times in the many days since he last saw her; her quiet acceptance of the knowledge of him breaking her heart, the generosity of her departure. He had no right to disturb her life once again, to impose his tarnished presence.

And Jeremy was right, of course. She could be in a relationship, maybe even married and expecting her first child. That hypothetical faceless man was something to consider - and so was Charlotte. She deserved his faithfulness and his respect, even if he couldn’t give her the broad extent of his love. Besides, despite being no more than coldly cordial with her, Finlay was already used to her presence. The lad needed to be handled with all the care in the world, always on the verge of drifting away permanently.

It was with significant relief that Hector received an invitation from Jeremy for pints at _The Quest & Victory, _their favourite pub in London, followed by early dinner at the nearby chippy. Finlay was away on a school trip to _The Cotswolds_ \- Hector hadn’t had the heart to forbid it, in spite of his other sanctions; instead, he admonished his wayward son to behave and not get himself pushed from a steep hill by a disgruntled classmate.

When Crowley picked him up from his street, the Scottish profiler enjoyed the momentary distraction of hearing his friend blabbering about _The Red Devils’_ outraging penalty on last night’s match. He stubbornly refused to let his mind wander towards a tearoom, where the woman with thunder under her skin could be awaiting him.

“Why are ye turning towards Camden?” Hector asked slowly, noticing that his Yard partner had failed to take the exit towards the Wembley area, turning instead to the hipster district.

“Well – _fuck_ – look, Blackwood.” Jeremy bit his full bottom lip and uneasily tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs. “I’m _Team Charlotte_ here. You know that. I mean, she is _one of us_. Miss Wardwell – blimey, I don’t pretend to know what she is and I’m not too sure you really grasp it either.” He licked his lips, offering Hector an earnest look. “But you’re my best mate and a damn fine profiler. Probably the best we’ve got. And my hockney bones are telling me we’ll need you at your best down the road and I want you to have a clear head if that time ever comes.”

“Nice one, Jeremy.” Blackwood’s voice sounded hoarse to his own ears, as if he had not used it to speak a true word in days.

“I’m saying you need to know. To truly know what you’re choosing.” Crowley nodded, raising his brows. “Perhaps you need to have a gander at the she-devil one last time to really say goodbye and close that chapter of your life. Then I’ll take you to get properly plastered.” 

Hector dared to consider it for a crushing moment; but part of him knew he did not possess the strength necessary to walk away if he saw her again. He would cock things up in a definitive, irredeemable, manner. If he vacillated now, he would find himself again and again at her door, pursuing a doomed prospect.

“Turn around, Jeremy Crowley.” The set of his jaw was painful, his fists curled until his phalanges hurt under the pressure. “I already know what needs to be done. Let’s get to the pub – ye owe me a round.”

***

On Sunday, Jeremy gave Hector a bell to remind him of Archie’s leaving do. Archie Stone was their colleague at the _New Scotland Yard_ and was leaving the force to move with his new wife to Australia. Hector had the distinct feeling that his co-worker was trying his best to look out for him, making sure he wasn’t left alone for too long to wallow and to feel like a dog’s dinner.

“I’m bringing Seth, since it’s a chap-only night.” Jeremy said, casually. “That way you two toffs can complain about me all night to each other.”

Over the years Jeremy had dated a couple of extroverted women that Hector had met briefly at social events, but for the last six months the Londoner had been seeing Seth Carow, a fit bloke that worked in finance. Jeremy’s bisexuality hadn’t been a secret between them, even before that last development. Hector was under the impression their relationship was quite serious for Crowley’s standards; he talked about his boyfriend frequently with tender urgency and had made a point of including him in their programmes with increasing regularity.

Looking to send Archie out with a bang, the chaps had agreed to a night at a swanky nightclub, away from the usual lagers and rugby on the telly.

The club’s atmosphere was sultry and charged with undercurrents of desire and abandon. The cadence of the beat was slightly mechanical, like the wheels of a gigantic mechanism turning, and the singer’s voice was deep and unhurried. 

Hector had never been one for partying hard, not even in his university years before Amelia, when his good looks and seriousness had seemed like a proper challenge for the opposite sex. The last time he had been inside a club, a haze of oxycodone occupied everything, and he existed solely inside that all-consuming blackhole, numb both to pain and joy, moving to its own dismal song. Now it felt too loud and crowded – he deemed himself misplaced, as if he was occupying someone else’s intended space.

Jeremy and Seth cradled their whisky and gin glasses as they swayed nearby, their chins marking the rhythm; all around the scot lovers, couples-to-be and acquaintances for the night danced and sang, arms thrown up in the air to welcome the dark beats inside their bodies.

As a particularly scandalous couple, not-so-secretly grinding against each other on the dancefloor, moved away in a cloud of laughter and lust, Hector finally saw her.

_The woman outcast._

_Ophelia._

She was dancing alone underneath the kaleidoscopic white lights, embraced by the space’s darkness but kissed by every moment of its absence. The witch wore a flattering dress, hugging her lithe frame in tones of cursed opal; it was semitranslucent without truly revealing the generous body underneath, with an infinite play-of-colour against a light grey pearly background.

Her face was tilted up, as if she felt the song in the air like rain pouring down, her hips gracefully rocking with its cadence; her light brown hair was longer than what he remembered, wavy and luscious. She looked like a proper sorceress for once, temptress released into the world for one night to summon mayhem upon the world - _upon his world_.

Overwhelmed by her presence, Hector blindly made his way towards her, dodging sweaty bodies and a couple of hands seeking to grope him in the half-light. The air buzzed with electricity, made almost corporeal by the undeniable scent of heavy perspiration and wantonness.

When he edged close enough to notice the whiff of lemon verbena and water mint surrounding her, as she danced with her profile turned in his direction, a blinding pain coursed through his body, with the momentum and dominion of a deflagration. It started in the centre of his chest, where one silver dove flew towards its mistress, and bolted across the column of his neck to the pulsing space behind his dark eyes.

It was powerful enough to make Hector moan softly and to falter his step, making him lose his bearings for several heartbeats; _he welcomed it_. It was the rightful price to pay for taking his leave from her for so long, for denying the force that propelled him towards his witch. _A man meant for a witch_ , she had said once. The pain brought back to him what it meant, to be a man meant for her kisses, for the sight of her naked porcelain skin and for the playfulness of her power while they laid together in bed, undone.

Then the song changed, the pulse turning slower and somehow even edgier, and she finally turned fully to him.

Their eyes met.

He saw the dawn of Ophelia’s feelings upon her face, when emotions grew too great for her to be able to school her features into her usual mysteriousness. He prayed that fog wouldn’t creep into his memory, erasing that moment from his head along with the beauty of her brown eyes.

He knew then that no one could gaze at his soul without flinching like she could. Time hadn’t touched the power she had over him; if anything, it had turned only greater.

Like moving underwater, Hector slowly approached her, forgetting how to breathe. She raised her chin, staring at him with a longing that wrenched his spine until his legs felt numb and ungainly, entirely useless to carry the weight of his body.

Before he reached her, she started to dance again, her eyes still fixed on him – they were the indescribable shade of secrets told in the autumn wind of her irises. Unspeaking, his hands framed her elegant waist and he started to move with her.

Through blinding pain, he marvelled at the intensity of her unforgettable smell, stronger in the proximity of the curve of her neck. Ophelia’s palms were open against his chest, their warmth felt even through the cotton of his shirt, as if her nails could immerse themselves in the tender spaces between his ribs, straight into the motion of his heart.

Hector pressed his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes, holding her tight against the expanse of his chest, his thumbs drawing circles on the smooth skin of her exposed shoulders. The thin scar on her ear caused by Sybil’s attack was almost hidden by the mass of her hair and he noticed a minuscule new tattoo on the opposite side, of the same three black dots now connected in a solemn triangle.

Her nose pressed against the hollow of his chest, directly above the hidden dove, and the criminal profiler felt her inhaling him slowly, steadily. He traced her lower back, the point before it dipped suggestively, and felt heat pooling everywhere.

Their bodies gravitated together, pushing and pulling, acknowledging each other; the dance felt more intimate than her mouth below his navel, than the kisses he had planted inside her inner thigh. It felt like loving her and losing her, with each and every beat, it felt like experiencing releasing madness.

And when the song finally changed again, drumbeats raising to a new heightened melody, Ophelia looked at Hector one last time, touched his lips with her index finger, turned and disappeared swiftly between the crowd.

They didn’t share a single word.


	14. Delicatessen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long gap between chapters, but being a doctor in 2020 has been a real struggle. You can imagine it hasn't been a year particularly conducive to writing and creativity. Will do my best to keep coming back. X

**XIV – _Delicatessen_**

Sometimes, late at night, the memory of the first days of withdrawal would come to Hector. The physical agony of an unaddressed hunger turned into searing pain; that pleasant dim void of a high transformed into a darkness that stared at him, clawing at his tender skin. At times, he doubted the day of his own past when he had been strong enough to endure it, thought himself too weak to glare back at that darkness.

Finlay had been the beacon he had followed to the stormy harbor of sobriety and even as he laid on deck, enjoying the timid sun of a clear head and senses, he was still aware of the sharp-edged cliffs surrounding him, threatening to rip him apart if he tried to sail away once more.

Seeing Ophelia again was a lot like withdrawal – a beautiful promise surrounded by sinister whisps of his past wrongdoings. The morning after the club, he had woken with a tremendous headache, a hangover from a type of inebriation no liquor could offer him, that pulsed in time with his arousal. Her herbal scent, the dangerous curve of her waist, the tamed power slightly unleashed by his presence; it was as if his blood had bloomed into a flower for her.

He had to end things with Charlotte. That much was clear. A relationship with her was the kind of insincere charade that would put her heart and his sobriety at risk. Even if he never saw the witch again - the thought both devastating and final – he couldn’t give Charlotte copper pennies and pretend them to be the whole sum of what he was able to give a lover.

It was with that sole intent firmly cloaked around his shoulders that Hector went to Charlotte’s house that night. Instead of using the spare key she had offered him, he knocked on the front door and ceremoniously waited for her appearance. When she finally answered the door, Charlotte was freshly showered and wearing a comfortable burgundy sweater and black yoga pants.

“Hector!” She quirked a brow and promptly framed his waist with her arms, leaning against his body to peck his lips. “Blimey! Have you been avoiding me? I haven’t seen you all week.”

“I’ve been busy with work and Fin.” Hector hawked, awkwardly standing on the threshold. “Sorry if I was a wee bit absent.”

“You’re here now.” Charlotte waved a hand in a _“all is forgiven_ ” motion, smiling softly at him. “Come into the living room, it’s brass monkeys outside.”

Hector followed her towards the spacious room, where the telly played one of the romantic series the female detective seemed to favor. While he fortified himself for what he had to say, he noticed a comfortable white throw and a thick folder with the _New Scotland Yard_ coat of arms stamped on the cover. “Brought some work home?”

“It’s Kiki Morris’ autopsy report.” The _Yard_ homicide detective sighed exasperatedly, shaking her diamond blonde head. “The cat isn’t out of the bag yet, but I have no hope of us keeping it away from the press much longer.” Her blue eyes seemed frightened, yet resolute. “Hector, the girl was murdered. The pills didn’t kill her, even if she did take some according to the contents of her stomach – asphyxia was the real cause of death, probably before she was placed inside the bathtub and a suicide staged.”

“Shit.” Hector thoughtfully brushed his lips with the knot of his index finger, before picking up the report and flipping through its numerous pages. “Any clues on the perpetrator? Viable suspects?”

“About a hundred and none in particular at the same time; it’s a damp squib so far.” Charlotte rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “She knew more people than the Pope and more than a handful hated her openly. Not to mention the faux friends, scorned exes and random stalkers she got disturbing mail from.” She shrugged helplessly. “I might be investigating this case until my retirement comes.”

Hector snorted; his eyes were fixed on the pages that detailed the probable last moments of Kiki’s life.

_Stomach containing traces of seafood and arborio rice, consistent with lobster risotto…liquid found containing 8-10% alcohol, likely Jerez Blanco…20 mg of Diazepam…three twin bruises on the inside of left wrist, peri-mortem…skin exhibiting traces of moisturizer and perfume, chemical analysis identified the substances as La Mer cream and Delicatessen…_

_Delicatessen._

The word felt like something rotten on his tongue, decaying further with each passing breath. He had smelled it before, the sweet floral scent with hints of hibiscus and citronella, both as part of building up a profile and later on his own skin, as he laid to die.

_No. It cannot be._

Panic rose on his throat, until all Hector could hear was his heart hammering madly, above even the words Charlotte continued to chirp, oblivious to the absolute turmoil rendering him speechless. Somewhere a black tide was rising, and he resignedly prepared to be swallowed whole; only the vague sense of wings flapping against his chest managed to keep him intact.

***

Before the sun had risen in a sky that looked like a pneumonia-ridden lung, Hector had already texted Jeremy to tell him he would be late coming in. He had a pressing matter to attend to before he could start his workday.

A short curvy woman with silky black hair greeted him with a warm smile when he entered the store, her hands busy with stacking small embellished boxes containing fragrant tea. “Welcome to _Wardwell’s Cup_.” Her melodic voice piped. “How can I help you, sir?”

The interior of the Camden establishment was fairly similar to Edinburgh’s emporium, filled with tasteful details and with an eerie atmosphere of influence and serenity. Several costumers sat in the adjoining tearoom that buzzed with animated conversation, the smell of vanilla, flour and sugar blended with brewed herbs creeping into the storefront, where two women and one gentleman carefully surveyed the labels of infusions and gift baskets.

“I’m looking for Miss Wardwell.” The profiler said, placing his hands inside the deep pockets of his overcoat to disguise his apprehension and stop himself from fidgeting. “Is she around by any chance?”

“She is out back.” The woman smiled pleasantly, a hint of curiosity – maybe defensiveness - crinkling the corners of her almond-shaped eyes. “Is Ophelia expecting you?”

“No.” Hector admitted in a low voice, throwing her what he hoped was a pleading look. “But you can tell her Hector Blackwood came to see her, if she’s willing.”

The shopkeeper nodded and disappeared through a door behind the counter; after a few moments, she returned with an enigmatic smile plastered on her face and silently nudged him towards the door.

The office awaiting him was small and fairly business-like, without the strange and mystifying objects that had fascinated him back at its Edinburgh equivalent. Even before he saw Ophelia quietly sitting at a small round table, his head was already throbbing with pain, although subdued in comparison to the agony he had experienced at the club.

Ophelia had her long hair braided, Hector noticed, and donned an ivory jumpsuit paired with a soft grey cardigan. She was not looking in his direction; in fact, she seemed adamant on keeping her gaze on the pile of papers in front of her.

_God, I missed you._ “Ophelia.” He called out softly, trying not to startle her. Hector noticed the light squeeze of her fingers on top of the table, before she finally raised her eyes to him. He had felt the thunder that lived inside her before – on the tips of his fingers, sometimes even when he was inside her, rattling on his hips - but it was the first time her eyes openly spoke of lightening.

“Hector.” Ophelia spoke his name slowly, as if she was savoring the hidden sweetness and bitterness of every letter, but she didn’t seem particularly surprised to see him. _Only resigned_.

Hector licked his lips in nervousness, the echoes of their first encounter too vivid on his mind. “Not _Mister Blackwood_ this time?”

“You have given me what’s inside you and you’ve been inside me.” The tea-maker glared at him, her face as profoundly disarming as it had been two years before. “I can only think of you as _Hector_ now.”

“How are ye?” His accent grew thicker when he was around her, as if his true self could not be as easily contained in her presence. “Congratulations on expanding your brand. This place is grand. I’m happy for ye.”

“Thank you.” She replied simply. “It has been an interesting two years – not sure we can truthfully cover the _“how are you”_ part over one short social visit.”

The scot noticed she didn’t offer him tea from the steaming pot nearby; although her face was a mask of politeness and casual interest, Ophelia didn’t intend to treat him like an esteemed guest.

Plagued with not only self-consciousness, but also a type of unease brought by a visceral yearning, Hector stretched and grabbed her almost empty teacup from the table. “ _Interesting_.” He squinted, while pretending to knowingly study the pattern of the tealeaves on the bottom of the porcelain surface. “Your cup tells me there’s a giant twat sitting in front of you. You shoudn’t make things any easier for him.”

The witch snorted, her butterscotch eyes set alight with amusement. “Well done. You have been practicing your tasseography, no doubt. Soon you’ll put me out of commission.” The corner of her full mouth twisted on a cautious smile. “I don’t need to read your leaves this time to know you did what you needed to do. You have your son with you now, I can tell. Something broken has been mended and I’m glad of that.”

“You’re somewhat different as well.” Hector tilted his jaw to the side, noticing – admiring – a new solemness in her presence.

“I have assumed leadership of the _Alba Coven_.” The witch shared, her fingers lightly brushing the new triangular tattoo on her ear. “After Sybil’s death, chaos ensued. Maud, the witch-in-waiting, was _sealed_ for her betrayal - a magic wall with no door now separates her from her power. She cannot reclaim it in this life.” She explained, noticing Hector’s perplexed look. “A coven exists to balance power, to protect all witches in its ranks and to allow for some particular magic to be practiced. But without its regulation witches roam freely and bad things start to happen.” Her lips twitched on a rueful smile. “I had no real choice.”

“I’m sorry your hand has been forced. I know you didn’t want to play that part.” The Yard officer studied her lean hands, the small signet ring of her coven nestled around her left pointer finger. It was an effort not to reach for her hand and entwine their palms together.

“ _Why are you here_ , Hector?” Ophelia tilted her head, the braid of her light brown hair curving around her shoulder like a resting snake. “Your heart keeps skipping a beat and you can barely catch your breath. You’re troubled.” Her magnetic brown eyes, like electricity trapped on glass, studied his face intently. “Only a great disturbance could bring you back to me.”

“I wondered, you know.” Hector raised his eyes to her. “If you still could do that.”

“Do what?” The witch asked in a whisper.

“Cleave me open like that.” The criminal profiler hawked to cover the sudden huskiness of his voice. “I’m sorry I came – I know I have no right to seek solace from you. But I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, anyone else who would understand.” He paused, trying to summon the strength to tell her what he had learned. “I think _The Eraser_ is back.”

He felt more than heard Ophelia’s sharp intake of air, like a cat’s quiet hiss. He could swear her teacup rumbled, the spoon softly clicking against the saucer.

“I think he killed someone, a high-profile victim, just like he used to. His _modus operandi_ is different, but his signature is there. Something that never became common knowledge and was never divulged on newspapers, so I don’t believe this could be a copycat. Only the true killer would know that all victims had traces of _Delicatessen_ on them.”

“Hector…” Ophelia started, the remarkable features of her face softening considerably.

“The last time he was active, I lost everything.” The criminal profiler said in a low murmur, searching her eyes for the understanding he knew would be there. “If he is in London and killing again, I don’t know if I can keep it together.”

“I knew I’d be needed here.” The tea-maker confessed, her eyes closing for a few seconds, as if she was finally surrendering to that fate. “A few months ago, I was watching the candle of my days, and London came to me clearly in the fire. You were there as well, talking in the flames.” Her hand tentatively reached for his, their fingertips brushing against each other. That simple touch almost took his breath away. “I will help you finish this, Hector. I will help you see that justice is done – for Amelia, Finlay and yourself.”

“I’ll call my sponsor and go to a meeting today.” Hector affirmed. “Then I’ll go to the _Yard_ and try to be placed in the investigation. I need as much information as I can gather.”

Ophelia nodded solemnly. “I’ll be in London for a couple of weeks still, to make sure the shop is up and running. I will see what I can do to help.” She offered him an unfathomable smile. “Besides my magic, being the owner of a hot new business gets people talking pretty fast.”

“I need to tell ye something else.” Hector rose from the chair, squaring his shoulders. “I’ve been causally seeing someone for a few months; she is a colleague in the force. And even if I intend to end it – I thought you should know.”

A brief shadow passed on her face and her hair seemed to grow an inch in a coil around her upper arm, but her expression remained impassive. “Send _Bruja_ my regards.”


End file.
